Alternity
by phorosz
Summary: A Mercury Rising AU. Nine year-old Simon Lynch is brutally struck down in his own home by a sniper's bullet, barely a day after decoding a classified NSA encryption. But all is not as it seems. The events that follow will determine destinies, shatter lives, and reveal a secret that one of the most powerful men on Earth has hidden from the world...
1. Prologue: The Days

_**Prolo**__**g**__**ue**_

_**The Days**_

* * *

><p>Darkness. Darkness was all it had ever known, and from its reasoning, ever would know. Reaching into the black surroundings, and suspended in this weightless environment, this immature soul did not expect to ever feel anything, but sudden contact with both an invisible barrier and unknown object had changed this perspective.<p>

It wasn't alone in this strange environment – before this moment, this being had only known loneliness – an odd, yet primitive sensation. It reached out toward the previously unknown object, eager to interact for the first time. Finally, upon touching this object, to its surprise, found another living being much like itself – curious and wonderful in design.

It puzzled just as to why they'd never interacted before.

What seemed like only a split second later, or possibly an eternity, it was suddenly constricted, the two were entangled with one another and the environment was no longer weightless. The constriction was also growing more and more oppressive, forcing the being downward at a growing rate. It soon felt even more constricted – far more than the environment ever had, and felt something new: fear – an emotion, and just the first of many. It struggled against the force, especially as it felt a draft of cold on its head, and then a sudden, blinding sensation in its eyes.

A cacophony of noise sounded around the form, and in sympathetic response, it began to wail and cry in inexplicable fear of this new and strange world, flailing as it was suddenly freed from the constriction felt during its dark journey and began a labored breathing.

This inexplicable fear grew to a fever pitch as it felt a sudden _upward_ motion, and a draft of cold air, complemented as the being felt a semblance of warmth return to its body in response, noticing the strange material now wrapped around its body, all but its head and arms. This frightened it even more than the sudden and quite sharp sensation that it'd felt for a split second – pain – again new, and unpleasant at that.

It suddenly ceased wailing for a time as its blurred gaze caught the eyes of a gentle, kind face, smiling down on it. In wonder, it reached upward toward this blurry, yet kind face, albeit unsuccessfully – another frustration of this new environment.

Yet, before it could even begin wailing in fright again, this soul heard another sharp cry, one of pain, from the direction opposite that which it was facing and turned its head and blurred gaze toward this perceived cry.

It was able to make out another face and form through its slowly clearing vision, a being similar in appearance to the kind face above, but this one's face was instead contorted in pain and obviously forcing extreme effort into some task its beholder could not understand.

Vision finally clearing, it looked back up to the kind face, smile still readily visible. It began to cry yet again, re-blurring its vision, spasms – hiccups from tiny lungs echoing in its ears.

The kind face above began uttering calming noises for a short time before patting his back and speaking the first words he had ever heard.

"Hello little one – welcome to the world."

* * *

><p><em>March 12, 1988 <em>

_– 9:50 a.m._

A few hours later, four year-old Peter Lynch trotted down a long corridor of the 20th floor maternity ward at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, shaggy brown hair bobbing with each eager step, his grandfather, William Lynch, in tow. Despite having awakened just over an hour ago, young Peter was energetic, full of excitement at seeing his new siblings for the first time.

"Ooh, look Granpa! I can see the big black rabbit building with the X's!" Peter exclaimed with joy and excitement – typical of a child his age – as he veered down a short corridor that ended at a large plate-glass window. William Lynch rolled his eyes and chuckled as he followed his wayward grandson to the window.

Bounded by St. Clair, Huron, and Erie Streets, the practically brand-new hospital had been finished just a month earlier, and being only a half-dozen blocks or so from the John Hancock Center added to Peter's perceived illusion of the one-hundred story skyscraper's height. Leaving an imprint of his small hand on the plate glass – in syrup of all things, Peter kept reaching for the black monolith and its twin broadcast antennas, as if he were actually succeeding at his task in grabbing the one of many buildings scattered throughout the city's extensive rise of steel and concrete.

William gently removed his grandson's hand from the window and bent down to eye level with the young boy.

"I thought you cleaned your hands off after breakfast, Peter."

No response was forthcoming from the anxious four year-old.

"You did wash your hands, didn't you?" William asked.

Peter stared down at the floor, averting his eyes from his grandfather's, a look of shame apparent on his face.

William again spoke to his grandson, with a gentle tone. "Peter, you're not in trouble – I just want to know whether or not you washed your hands this morning."

"Yes, Granpa," Peter said as he kicked at some imaginary object on the floor, eyes wandering the shining tile beneath his feet. "I – I did not."

"That's okay for now, bud – It's just I was worried at first. I know how your Grandma doesn't like syrup, especially on windows – doesn't matter whether they're hers or not."

"This place's new – that is why, right?" Peter inquired, now staring up at William with inquisitive, blue-green eyes.

"Especially since it's new, so just don't –"

"William, what are you two doing? I thought you were trying to find Jen's room," Martha Lynch interrupted. "And, is that a handprint on that window back there?"

"Peter wanted to look at the Hancock Center. I couldn't stop him from coming down here, and besides, I had a man-to-man talk with him – not to mention he's a big brother now."

"That's just what I was saying – wait, did you just say that to divert me from that awful handprint behind you?" Martha asked, face wrinkled in disgust.

William scoffed. "No, every word I said was true, Martha – true to my old bones. And now, I'm quite sure that Peter would like to see his parents and new siblings. Am I right, bud?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" Peter exclaimed happily, clapping his hands and jumping as high as his short legs would allow. He was glad his grandpa had changed the subject.

"Well, this way then, Peter," Martha said in a tired voice as she ushered her grandson forward. "Mommy and Daddy are waiting."

She took his hand in hers and walked back to the main corridor, William falling into step a short ways behind them. After striding down the fairly busy corridor for a time, with Peter peering curiously into nearly every room they passed, Martha finally spied her son and Peter's father, Martin, standing a short ways down the corridor.

"Look, there's Daddy, Peter," Martha said in a relieved voice as she pointed Martin out to her grandson.

"Daddy! I'm here, I'm here! Peter's here!" Peter cried as he let go of his grandmother's hand and joyfully raced toward his father.

Martin bent to his knees just as Peter skidded to a halt, embracing his son with a bear hug, Peter giggling happily the whole time.

With Peter still giggling and broadly grinning, Martin released his hug and stood to greet his parents.

The thirty-five year-old first embraced Martha, a look of relief on both their faces.

Martin sighed as he lightly embraced his mother. "Mom."

"It's good to see you, Martin – I'll bet you're glad to see us," Martha said, proudly beaming.

"Oh, you have no idea, Mom," Martin said exhaustedly, releasing his mother and moving to his father, who proceeded to proudly slap him on the back as they briefly embraced.

"You look exhausted, son," William stated, without very much subtlety as his son ushered him to the doorway of Jenny's room.

Martin weakly grinned. "Oh, now you tell me, Pops."

Peter tugged at his father's arm impatiently. "Daddy, is Mommy awake?"

"Mommy's very tired, Peter," Martin said as he glanced down at his four year-old son. He then turned back to his parents, a tired look in his eyes and unshaven stubble peppering his jaw. "Last I knew Jen was still sleeping. I think we should probably go somewhere and wait – let her rest, and then come back in a couple hours or so."

William spoke up, albeit in a low voice. "There's a cafeteria three floors down, Martin – we could wait there for a while."

"We just ate an hour ago, William!" Martha exclaimed, "And Peter _certainly_ doesn't need any food – those leftover hotcakes Jen had in the refrigerator were gone in ten minutes."

Martin was taken slightly aback and stared down in his four year-old in wonder before looking back to his parents. "How many did he eat, Mom?"

Before Martha could answer, William spoke up. "Don't worry – he only had two. You're mom's exaggerating."

"What else is new?" Martin grumbled.

It was now Martha's turn to be taken aback.

"Martin…!" she exclaimed, her voice surprised.

"I'm sorry, Mom – I'm sure you can understand – I've had a busy morning," Martin said apologetically.

"And I'll bet that getting Jen up at 1:30 didn't help, either," William chimed in.

"No, it certainly didn't," his son replied, staring down the corridor blankly.

After a short time in which Martin pondered his tumultuous thoughts, a weak voice came from within the room: "I'm awake, honey – you can come back in."

Peter bounded through the door before Martin was able to stop him, a broad smile on the boy's face as he passed a creamy-white cloth partition curtain, curious as to why it was drawn across nearly half the room.

"Mommy!" Peter exclaimed joyfully as he rushed to the side of Jenny's bed, his short form barely showing above it. Jenny quickly noticed her son and patted him on the head, motioning for him to climb up.

Martin quickly strode in, with his parents following close behind. He displayed annoyance to no end.

"Where is he?" Martin growled.

"Calm down, hon," Jenny said, "He's not harming me any."

"If you say so, Jen," Martin said in relief, his face finally relaxing as he sank into a nearby chair.

"Besides," Jenny continued as Peter clambered up beside her, "I wanted to see my only child – oh, wait."

"What, Mommy?" Peter asked.

"You're not my only child anymore!" she weakly exclaimed, almost joking.

Peter looked and sounded confused. "What?"

"You know what, silly – you're a big brother now, that's what," Jenny stated, her voice tired.

Peter looked to his left and saw them – a pair of hospital cradles side by side about four feet from the bed, and within them were his new siblings. He slid off the bed and wandered to the nearest of the newborns, gazing in wonder and curiosity.

Walking past a dozing Martin, William and Martha came forward to greet Jenny. Jenny propped herself up to offer her hand to William, who instead decided to give a hearty bear-hug to the second-time mother.

"It's good to see you too, William," Jenny exclaimed, slightly startled as she briefly returned the hug, and William finally let her go.

"Forgive him, Jen – he's had too much coffee this morning," Martha quipped, "But then again I—"

"Don't have much room to speak, Martha?" William asked, with a hint of underlying sarcasm.

"Yes, but that's not really the reason we're here, Bill. We're here to see our daughter-in-law and the new little ones aren't we?"

"Nah, I just thought I'd drop in for the food," William said, grinning as he made his way toward the curtain Peter had disappeared behind a short time ago.

Martha then drew it aside to see Peter peering intently into the first cradle, gazing in wonder at its sleeping occupant. William then took the curtain and pulled it even further aside, almost to the second cradle, before letting it drop aside as he walked up beside Peter, looking down at the first cradle's occupant.

Martha turned to Jenny, an inquisitive look in her eyes.

Jenny immediately caught this look and laid back, settling deeply into the pillows as Martha pulled another chair to the foot of the bed and sat in it, the surprisingly new wood of the chair frame creaking.

"What time did they say?"

"Around 6:07 for the first one, 6:10 for the second – and did that first one put up a fuss, even before they cut the umbilical." Jenny briefly paused to catch her breath before continuing. "Even Peter never put up _that_ much of a fuss; neither did he put up that much of a fight, either."

William looked down to his second grandchild before turning to face Jenny. "That little fella?" Jenny nodded affirmatively.

Peter trotted over to the second cradle, its occupant semi-awake and waving its arms around, smacking the sides weakly. Peter looked at his second sibling in equal awe to the first, their eyes meeting for the first time.

"He is a fella, right, Jen?" William asked a look of almost sheepish uncertainty apparent on his face.

"Him and his brother," Jenny said, beaming.

"They're _both_ fellas?"

"That they are, William."

A sudden cry from the nearest infant brought everyone's attention to it, even that of Peter, who proceeded back over to Jenny, and past his crying brother, an inquisitive look on his face.

"Mommy, what'd you say about the crying one?" Peter asked.

"Mostly just that he was very loud, far louder than after you were born, hon," Jenny replied, breathing heavily.

"He cry for a while?"

"At least a half-hour after he was born, yes – why do you ask?"

"I saw, on the TV last week, National Geograpic, about these wild things called – hynas, no, hyneas, yes," Peter said excitedly.

Jenny chuckled weakly again. "You mean hyenas, and National Geogra_phic_ don't you, hon?"

"YES! That's it!" he exclaimed again. "Hyenas."

Martin, having reawakened a short time earlier, rose from his chair and delicately handed his father a still running camcorder, just before taking a few short strides over to Jenny's bed.

"Dad," Martin said.

"What, son?"

"I left that seat open for you," he said, motioning to the vacant seat, "and besides, I wanted to find out what _hyenas_ have to do with one of my new sons." After hesitating a few seconds, William gratefully eased himself into the padded green chair, camcorder still running.

Peter continued on. "I just thought a name for him – Simon."

"Simon?" Martin asked, curious as to what his son knew about the name, seeing as how he didn't want to go through a drawn-out naming process with his in-laws again.

"Why Simon, honey?" Jenny asked in turn, catching a look from Martin that she knew all too well, and completely agreed with: try and start the naming process before her parents would get too much of a say and make things awkward – like after Peter was born.

Peter eagerly told. "In He-brew, it can mean – ob-e-dient, lis-ten, or little _hyena_."

A look of understanding dawned on Martin and Jenny's faces, both suddenly realizing what he'd meant.

"So, your talk about hyenas was just a way to tell us, wasn't it, Peter?" Jenny asked, only slightly curious, already knowing her son's answer.

"Does it have to be, Mommy?" Peter almost seemed to plead.

"It does if you want to name your little brother," Martha said, "Right, Martin?"

Martin sighed, almost exasperated by his mother's tone, but agreeing all the same. "I guess so, yeah."

"Exactly," Jenny said. After a brief pause to catch her breath, she continued. "So, are you absolutely sure you want to name him 'Simon?'" she asked, motioning to the now-hiccupping infant.

Peter appeared to ponder his mother's words.

"Take your time, Peter – don't be too hasty," Martin said matter-of-factly.

"Hasty? Like tasty, Daddy?" Peter asked, breaking his concentration.

Martin chuckled and Jenny almost giggled before they grew serious again, amused at Peter's unexpected mix-up.

"No, not like that, Pete – more like too quick, too fast – that kind of thing."

"Ohh, I see – like that," Peter said, now understanding.

After yet another short period in which to think, during which he did so quite intently, Peter piped up and looked to his nearest infant brother, still hiccupping:

"He is Simon," the four year-old proclaimed rather proudly.

Martin and Jenny exchanged looks of relief – at least they wouldn't have to deal with Jenny's parents any time soon.

"Any ideas on your youngest brother, Peter?" William asked, peering from behind the camcorder.

"He special on that side, Granpa – which side is that?"

"The right side."

"For him, give another He-brew name – Benjimin."

"Benj_a_min, you mean," his grandfather replied.

"Yes, yes, Benjamin. I heard it refer to 'son of right hand' or youngest – both make sense enough."

"Again, think this through and don't be too quick, Peter – it's a big job picking out your siblings' names," Martha said.

"Don't they usually use 'Benjamin' for the youngest born significantly later or last?" William inquired.

"Sometimes," Peter replied. He then pursed his lips and sighed, the noise practically echoed by the newly-named Simon, still periodically hiccupping.

"I have changed my mind – how about…" he trailed off, pausing for effect. "Benjamin!" Looking to Jenny, he continued, giggling incessantly. "See, I 'changed my mind', Mommy."

William looked to Martin in surprise, chuckling.

"Martin, did your son just make a joke?"

"I believe he did, Pop," Martin said. "I guess this is a day of birth in more ways than one…"

* * *

><p><em>September 20, 1988 <em>

_– 3:14 p.m._

Jenny Lynch took her first steps out of the old station wagon, umbrella in hand, followed closely by Martin, who gently took the umbrella from his wife as the rain poured around them. Jenny's first tentative steps on the gravel were unsteady ones, but fairly solid nonetheless. Upon reaching the blanket of wet grass, however, her shoes sank into the muck beneath, the ugly brown mud oozing between the once-green blades.

A quick look ahead determined what Martin and Jenny already knew – they were the last of a total of eight people to arrive, not including the minister and gravediggers. A small, open-air tent had been erected above the grave, at the head of which stood Minister Parkins, pastor of a nearby church and close friend of one of the other three couples present – the Ohlmeyers.

Chas and Nita Ohlmeyer had only become friends of the Lynches in the past few months, some of the most difficult months of Martin and Jenny's lives. In June, they had taken Simon for a routine brain scan at Northwestern, but had become confused at the results and soon learned that he was autistic after visiting Chas, head of neuropsychiatry at Loyola's new Lakeshore Campus, situated just three blocks west of Lake Shore Drive and Lake Michigan itself. Before that time, Martin and Jenny had never heard of autism, despite the condition's slowly growing national attention.

Simon now had monthly visits to Chas's office, for whatever effective therapy could be attempted on the six month-old. Peter, especially, was quite dumbfounded at his younger brother's condition.

These thoughts flooded Jenny's mind as she and Martin finally reached the tent, tears already welling in her eyes. Her emotions were obvious to everyone present, but no one could notice more so than her parents: Robert Sr. and Laura Simmons. Though they were more than twenty years senior to their oldest child, they could still recognize when she was more deeply upset than showed. Wisely choosing to check their conversation, Robert and Laura both silently embraced their daughter, affirming their compassion for her situation.

The last couple present was Martin's parents, William and Martha. Having been present six months earlier when the twins were first introduced to the family, and at which time young Peter had so eagerly named them, it was a solemn turn of events to be present for one of their burials. As Martin silently embraced his parents, he thought on how they had been forced together on this date – a time when they shouldn't have been.

A week ago, while feeding the twins, Jenny had noticed Benjamin's coughing becoming far more severe and chronic than even Simon's, and, on closer inspection, she discovered, to her horror, he was coughing up blood. Immediately calling Martin home from work, they had proceeded to take both of the twins back to Northwestern Memorial for tests. After two hours, Simon was cleared, but the doctors there had requested Benjamin remain overnight for observation – just as a precaution, of course.

But, when Martin returned the next day to take Benjamin home, he received a grim report on his youngest son's condition – the boy had terminal lung cancer, and was dying. Martin had desperately inquired about an emergency NCD treatment and the doctors simply shook their heads, stating that Benjamin's cancer was too far gone for even NCD, (short for nano-cancer disintegration) which had been hailed as the cure for the dread condition upon its introduction only ten years ago, in 1978.

Devastated, Martin had returned home to deliver the news to Jenny – she nearly collapsed where she had stood, disbelieving of the unfortunate truth. The rigors of how tragic this truth was became readily apparent over the next couple of days, during which they visited Benjamin in the hospital, his condition rapidly degrading, until he had died in the early morning hours of the 17th. Jenny had cried for hours that day, before Peter had even woken up, and once he had, and learned of Benjamin's death, joined his mother in crying himself.

Since then, Jenny and Peter had cried every day, together, while Martin had made arrangements for the funeral, bringing both his and Jenny's parents to Chicago. And now, here they all were, assembled for something that they all knew should never have happened.

Finally, after finished silently greeting their parents, Martin and Jenny sat in the only two chairs present, while their respective parents gathered behind them. The Ohlmeyers stood off to Jenny's left, silent and motionless. Finishing a silent prayer, Parkins opened his worn, leather-bound Bible and began to speak.

"Those of you gathered here today, do so in remembrance of one so young that he had barely begun his long journey down the path of life. This path is always marked by trials, temptations, and suffering, no matter how long it is, but these events always manage to bear fruit to those watching closely for such things. I believe that though this young man would have faced these trials as he matured, God would have made him the soul he was meant to be. Torments face us every day in life, but I pray that today will not let this family lose their hope."

Parkins indirectly motioned to the gravediggers, who began to slowly lower the tiny casket into the ground as he continued.

"And let us not forget these words of comfort, written by John in Revelation 21:4 – _'And he shall wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there no longer shall be any death; there shall no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away_.'" Parkins then proceeded to close his Bible before lowering his head. "Now, please join me in a word of prayer."

Martin, Jenny, their parents, and the Ohlmeyers all lowered their heads and closed their eyes as Parkins began his prayer.

"Dear Lord, this is indeed a trying time for those here today, but do not let Martin and Jenny stray from the true reason for their son's existence – the glory and wonder of life that you provided for them to rejoice in. And though his time among us may have been short, we know that he is now with you, and that Martin and Jenny will never forget the life you gave them, the one we knew as Benjamin Scott Lynch. Comfort them with all your love, and may they feel it especially today. In the name of your son Jesus, Amen."

After solemnly repeating Parkins' 'Amen', the Ohlmeyers, and both Martin and Jenny's parents moved forward to silently pay their final respects, gently casting damp white lilies into the grave, whose loose petals fluttered to land atop the tiny casket. After a short while, they moved away and shook hands with Parkins, complementing him on his kind words.

Martin and Jenny continued to remain seated for a time, Jenny sobbing, before Martin finally urged her from her seat, albeit reluctantly. Upon reaching the edge of the grave, Jenny's sobbing reached a fever pitch, tears rolling down her cheeks and into the grass, unnoticeable to the already damp blades of faded green and brown. Martin hugged his wife tightly as her sobbing gave way to hiccups, strained and choked words emerging from between the outbursts of intense emotion.

"I – I can't believe he's gone, Martin…"

"I know, hon – I know," Martin spoke in a comforting tone to his distraught wife, just barely able to contain his own emotions.

"My – my baby, my Benjamin… What happened?!" Jenny sobbed aloud.

"We had no control, Jen, but I think – no, I _know_ that Parkins is right – our son is with God now, and that he's in a place where there is no pain, no suffering of any kind."

"Or mourning?" Jenny weakly croaked, choking back her tears.

"Or mourning," Martin answered affirmatively, hugging his wife closer.

Silence pervaded between them, and for a time, the only noise was that of the heavy rain, drumming on the roof of the tent and the trees around them, pooling on the ground in rippling brown puddles. Still sniffling, Jenny shoved her tissue deep into her pocket and brushed her auburn hair aside as she bent to her knees to retrieve a pair of freshly cut white lilies, handing one to her husband without turning as she rose back to her feet.

They both cast the flowers into the grave simultaneously, some of the petals again detaching and fluttering down gently onto the casket. And, as the last of the petals gently settled, the mourning parents moved away from the grave, allowing the diggers to begin their solemn job.

* * *

><p>After a brief exchange with Parkins, thanking him for his time, patience, and kind words, Martin retrieved the umbrella before he and Jenny began their sojourn back to the station wagon, rain still pouring just as hard as when they arrived. Farewells to their parents could wait, since they weren't leaving for another two days, so as to spend time with Martin, Jenny, and Peter, in addition to getting to better know little Simon.<p>

Midway back to the car, and surrounded by the soggy grass and ugly brown puddles, Jenny stopped her husband's stride and looked into his eyes pleadingly.

"Never again, Martin. I _never_ want to lose a child again – ever."

Martin again broke into stride, gently pulling his wife along with him, and as they neared the car, he merely nodded to her, his reply quite faint. "We'll do everything we can, Jen – _whatever_ we can."

Without another word, they both got in the car. Slamming his door shut, Martin started the car up, the radio abruptly flaring to life. Shaking his head, he engaged the gearshift before starting slowly down the road, tires crunching on the wet gravel.

The radio jockey was _still_ busy talking about the weather – as if he had nothing better to do, which, as usual, he apparently didn't.

"Well, folks, it looks like what's left of Hurricane Jeanne is still lingering over Chicago and Lake Michigan, and it's giving us this nasty old downpour. We've already had three inches of rain over the past twelve hours – how much more is old Mother Nature going to throw at us?"

Suddenly, as if answering the man's question, the rain slowed, and all but stopped. Jenny leaned forward to peer through the windshield and the tree canopy overhead – she was soon greeted by a sudden ray of warm sunlight that pierced the gloom and illuminated her face, and the first smile she had worn in days.

Martin briefly looked to his wife and then up at the sunlight, smiling too.

Jenny smiled back at him and settled into her seat, closing her eyes just as the old cellphone's ring sounded from her purse – condolences from friends, most likely. Jenny's smile faded, but – now boldly determined to confront what was to come – she answered, no longer afraid to face her sorrow...

* * *

><p><em>AN: Please review! So, opinions thus far?_

_Note that any discrepancies within this story are there for a reason: it takes place in an AU. Things **will** be different. Like 'Hurricane Jeanne' in 1988; Jeanne here in __"Alternity" is our Hurricane Gilbert. In reality (and here) the storm's remnants passed over Chicago in mid-September 1988. _


	2. Curiosity

_**One**_

_**Curiosity**_

* * *

><p><em>June 5, 1997 <em>

_– 1:00 p.m._

Nine year-old Simon Lynch gazed through the windows of his father's old station wagon from the backseat, as if trying to find something, lost amongst the countless single-family homes racing past his field of vision to either side of West Ogden Avenue. Cutting from southwest to northeast through Chicago's Lower West Side, Simon realized that it was just one of many streets they had to use in order to get back to their home on West Twenty-Third Street. Being just over three miles from downtown and The Loop, it all held special significance to the young autistic in more ways than one.

On a clear day, when fog from Lake Michigan didn't totally blanket the city, the boy could spy the towering steel jungle of downtown, with the familiar black step-box form of the Sears Tower and the slim, Empire State Building-like outline of the Chicago Skyneedle readily visible even from his present location.

To either side was not only growing apartment and housing developments, but amidst the urban chaos, immediately ahead were the sprawling, smooth grass and tree-covered lawns of the 173-acre Douglas Park, itself situated just over a mile north of the Lynch home. These far-reaching blankets of deep green grass had sown memories in Simon's head. Some were happy memories – others, bad memories, forever present in the damaged boy's mind.

From the front seat, Jenny briefly glanced in the mirror at her son and recognized the look in his eyes before refocusing on the road ahead – he was remembering the incident at the pool in Douglas Park.

Two years ago, she had taken Simon to the public pool there on a Friday afternoon when a boy perhaps three years older than him had attacked and tried to drown him. Jenny had dragged the apparently sociopathic ten year-old away from her son in a fit of rage and adrenaline, while a concerned parent in the pool had, with some obvious difficulty, lifted a floundering and wailing Simon into his arms from the water and then into Jenny's waiting embrace. Simon had screamed and cried for hours – just like when he'd been born. Unfortunately this had made it difficult for the doctors at Rush University Hospital to examine him hours later, especially when he kicked and shoved at them. Eventually, they had been forced to restrain and sedate him.

_Poor Simon_.

A lengthy debate with the boy's parents – John and Lynda Woller – and the city and state courts had ensued in the weeks after. The matter had been uneasily settled, with the Wollers grudgingly footing the bill for Simon's care in the ER. As for their son, Charlie, he had been sentenced to two years' juvenile detention, to be followed by an additional ten years' probation – in lieu of attempted murder charges and battery against a minor.

Simon quickly blocked the memory from his mind, not particularly eager to revisit that incident in any detail. Letting his thoughts wander for a time, he suddenly remembered the newest issue of _Encoders: A Puzzle World,_ given to him by his therapist, Dr. Carolyn Carter (whom Simon always called 'Carriy'), just that afternoon. It had been no more than two hours since he'd received the paper-form magazine from her and in voluntarily standing out in the unusually chilly June weather, to be closer to Mommy when she arrived, Simon had silently but eagerly accepted the magazine while Carolyn waited beside him.

The intensely bright-colored design of the cover had reminded him of his scarf – another of his unusual habits. A gift from several years earlier, Simon found comfort in the close, warm feeling the scarf provided, even in the hottest of summer months he could rarely be seen without it.

Leaning forward, the boy grasped toward the floor of the station wagon, his arms flailing while attempting to retrieve his vibrant red and blue backpack. Straining, Simon finally took hold of the bag and pulled it into his lap in a precise and delicate motion well-practiced. Finally removing the magazine, he gently set it against his chest before taking hold of his Flexi tablet and removing that as well.

Upon setting his bag aside with the same slow and delicate precision as when he retrieved it from the floor, Simon took hold his Flexi and laid it across his knee. Though worn and slightly creased from four years' worth of use, the translucent display still worked properly and was durable enough to last years more.

Opening the also-creased magazine to one of its most enigmatic, yet simple puzzles, Simon found the maze an enjoyable challenge, something to distract and entertain a mind not too unlike his. Pressing hard to smooth the creased pages, he was able to make out the previous puzzle – an amalgamation of assorted letters and symbols. Turning the page, Simon was confronted by sequences of letters, symbols, _and_ numbers neatly arranged in two dozen rows of hundreds of characters, up and down the paper.

Where one would normally have seen chaos, the young savant's subconscious saw order slowly coming together as the strings of characters and numbers began to shift and rearrange themselves, some even disappearing altogether or reshaping entirely before his eyes – a message. But, this was a message like none he'd ever seen before – complex and seemingly infinite in its design. Without a writing utensil handy to write out the message for his eyes to see, to confirm what his mind inexplicably and unbelievably already had, Simon would have to rely on his Flexi and its note-taking program, something that he had never fully grasped.

Taking the Flexi in hand and smoothing the creases by pressing it into his jeans leg, he then proceeded to activate the display through Voice-It.

"On," he said in a moaning voice.

The display flashed to life, its startup completed before Simon could even blink at the bright early afternoon sun. He gazed down at the device in childish fascination and wonder, something he had done over a hundred times ever since he first used it four years ago. Flashing across the display with almost dizzying speed were the default news reports that always came up with Voice-It, telling one thing or another about politics and the outside world. Today, these ranged from the ongoing insurrection in Formosa to prospects in next year's US Senate elections. All of this would never hold any special place in Simon's mind or bend a second thought of his toward it.

Pressing a finger to the display, Simon dragged his finger across it – up and down, side-to-side in a rhythmic motion, selecting different functions one by one as the Flexi naturally bent slightly under his touch. Thirty-odd seconds later, Simon had found the note-taker, both hands trembling slightly at the prospect of using the program – a very uncomfortable sensation – but necessary to help solve this new puzzle.

"You okay, honey?" Jenny asked, taking notice of her son's now trembling form through the rearview mirror.

"Simon is okay. Simon is okay, Mommy," the young boy said nervously, halting his shaking hands and swaying upper body, settling back into the seat yet again, rumpling his old blue t-shirt.

"Just wanting to make sure, hon," Jenny said.

"Simon likes puzzles," he responded.

Jenny simply smiled, knowing her son's fascination with puzzles, crosswords, and various knowledge-tests. This one small thing he could do with equal, and sometimes, superior precision and skill to normal children his age, despite his 'mental deficiencies' as some had derisively put it. His Flexi was also the one thing he could use to visually express what he knew, and knew very, very well.

That was exactly what Simon had begun doing – clumsily stabbing at the Flexi's surface and the virtual keyboard displayed across the center, in a one-fingered typing fashion that, although serving little use to the average person, was of much use to Simon, as it enabled and all but guaranteed greater accuracy.

A minute or so later – finally finished typing – his right hand fell to the worn tan seat beside him, balling into a weak fist as his left hand set the Flexi down on his knee and he began rocking as far as the seatbelt would allow. The message was dually simple and cryptic in nature, something even the most advanced areas of Simon's mind could barely grasp:

**Call the number 1-800-555-2417 if you have solved this puzzle, Number Ninety-Nine. If so, inform the operator and you will receive the reward of a ****free**** two year magazine subscription of your own choosing.**

Simon's dull green eyes danced across the Flexi again and again to make sure – _Yes, this is real, Simon._ Absorbing the information like a sponge in water, the boy un-balled his fist and slid his right hand into the smallest compartment of his backpack. Briefly thrashing the bag about, he proceeded to delicately slide out his AutCer Simple touchphone – with no options other than the ability to make calls with either an easy-to-access contact list or ten-digit on-screen keyboard.

This number wasn't on his list, neither had he seen it before.

But, it was a simple instruction – _Simple to follow_, as his parents would always say. Simon obeyed out of an undying love to his parents – he simply didn't know _how_ to disobey. This was a rare quality many parents desired in their children.

A sudden bump jolted Simon, the magazine sliding to the floor and the now-dormant Flexi flipping to the seat from his knee.

"Sorry about that, honey," Jenny stated apologetically, sighing. "We're almost home."

Retrieving the Flexi, Simon simultaneously began entering the number on his phone, just as his father had taught him – '_Multi-tasking_' he had called it. Utilizing his thumb, the boy pressed hard and slow at the numbers on the smartphone's screen, one by one, with his fingerprints readily apparent on the screen's protective cover.

Just as he was taught, Simon was calling someone. Not Mommy or Daddy's numbers, he remembered those very well. It wasn't the school or his grandparents' number either but, he was supposed to call it anyway. It would likely give him a kind of reward – he liked rewards.

Finished entering the number, he pressed 'Call' and with both hands gingerly held the phone up to his ear as the first ringing tone sounded and a strand of his long, medium-brown hair fell over his eyes. Simon pursed his lips, imitating the second ring as it sounded in his ear, seemingly more drawn out than the first.

* * *

><p>Thirty year-old Leo Pedranski was busy texting on his phone, fingers practically flying over the keys when the Puzzle Line suddenly began loudly ringing. Startled by the blaring noise, Pedranski dropped his phone to the dull gray concrete floor, the hardened protective case absorbing the sudden shock of the impact. He leaned down and snatched his phone from the cold floor, setting it aside, next to his dormant laptop.<p>

Scrambling up, Pedranski spilled a half-empty can of soda to the floor, the still-fizzling brown liquid pooling around the already-rusting metal legs of his desk. He skirted the growing pool of hissing soda and raced over to the blinking semi-circular bank of monitors that contained the Puzzle Line call receiver and GPS trace gear. The receiver was going nuts, or so Pedranski thought, as he dropped his skinny frame into a worn black desk chair in front of the receiver. It had been late 1996 the last time a call had come through the Line.

_Guess I just got too relaxed thinking no one else would prank-call it again_, Pedranski thought as he finally answered the blaring receiver and activated the GPS trace.

"Hi! You've reached the Puzzle Center. For solving this puzzle – one of our hardest yet – you've won a two-year _free_ subscription to any magazine of any format you choose. Now, all I need is your information, and you can begin this awesome subscription now. Or, if you choose, tell me your email address and I'll send you the link you need to begin right away," Pedranski said, having to catch his breath as his gear locked onto the caller's GPS and began to narrow it down. _I probably sound like an identity thief right now – then again, people like us have identity thieves for breakfast_.

For a time, Pedranski anxiously listened for a voice, but all he could hear was a slightly raspy and high-pitched breathing, nervous-sounding, almost.

"Hello?"

"I – I don't know you," a voice stuttered nervously from the speakers in response to Pedranski.

_Who on earth is __this__? _

"It's okay if you don't have an email – just tell me your name and home address and you'll –"

"You're a stranger," the distinctly child-like voice uttered nervously again, interrupting Pedranski. "I can-not tell you my name or home."

_Okay then_. "Tell me then, what puzzle did you solve?" The GPS signal was narrowing on northern Illinois.

"I'm good – solved puzzle number nine-nine."

Pedranski's jaw dropped and his skin crawled. "What did you just say? Can you repeat that, please?"

"Number _Nine-Nine_," the boy timidly, yet emphatically replied, reaffirming his original statement.

"Can you tell me how you solved ninety-nine?" Pedranski asked, stunned, still not believing his ears.

"You are a stranger – I should _not_ say any-thing."

From the background, another voice, fainter, but distinctly female commanded the one Pedranski was speaking with. "Simon, you know you shouldn't be talking with anyone besides me or Daddy, and especially not a stranger."

"No, no, don't –" _Click._ The caller had hung-up and the GPS trace had only narrowed it to Cook County – Chicago.

Pedranski cursed under his breath and slammed his fist into the monitor nearest him, causing the picture to flicker wildly for a brief moment before it settled back to normal.

"Problem, Leo?"

Pedranski whirled around in the chair to see Dean Crandell stride through the door, carrying a bag of McDonalds' breakfast food, his khaki coat streaked with wet stains, dark and close-cropped auburn hair dripping.

"What took you so long, man? It's been murder this morning – Striker's been in charge since Kudrow left for Manhattan, and he assigned me to work down _here_, even though Kudrow told me to oversee the final installation." Pedranski paused to catch his breath before continuing, albeit in a nervous tone. "Not to mention that there's never been a serious call down here anyway."

Crandell removed his soggy coat and tossed it onto the rack by the door before responding, nodding in agreement. "True."

Striding to his desk, and after dropping his six-foot lanky frame into his overstuffed desk chair, he finally responded to Pedranski's initial question.

"It's the hurricane – Rain overflowed the east end of the Rocky Gorge Reservoir and flooded out the I-95. I had to detour through Laurel to get here – not to mention traffic was backed-up trying to get onto the Washington Parkway heading north for Baltimore. Does that answer your question?"

Pedranski stayed silent, staring at the floor, his fingers twitching.

Crandell grabbed for his bag of food and opened it. "Leo!"

Pedranski was jolted from his silent reverie and looked back up to his friend. "Oh, the question – yeah, man it does," he said, his voice trailing off, left foot incessantly tapping the floor.

Crandell was perplexed. "What's gotten into you, man? You're acting like its Striker who just walked in here and not me – like you saw a ghost or something, which I'll bet the man really is."

"More like heard," Pedranski muttered.

"What?"

As Crandell propped his legs up on his desk, unwrapped his McMuffin sandwich and began ravenously eating away at it, Pedranski looked to him in a nervous way and began explaining.

"It's the code, Dean."

"What – having problems with that final installation?"

"I wish it were that simple, man."

Dean knew his friend wasn't usually this cryptic. "Just spit it out!"

"The code –" Pedranski gulped, "It's been broken."

Incredulous, Crandell looked to Pedranski, his mouth gaping, and half-eaten sandwich dropping to the floor, its contents scattering across the concrete under his desk. "Say what?!"

Pedranski simply nodded, silently.

Crandell scoffed. "This isn't another joke, is it Leo? We all _loved_ the last one."

"The last one wasn't me, and no, I wish this were a joke, Dean," Pedranski said, turning back to the monitors – and the replay gear.

For the first ten or fifteen seconds of the replay, Crandell was otherwise occupied, scooping the remains of his sandwich from the floor, picking the dust and dirt from it. He paused upon hearing Leo's voice in the recording stop after giving their well-practiced 'sales-pitch' as he called it. Slightly mystified, Crandell brushed aside his doubts and continued removing his sandwich from the floor. Suddenly, he heard the unmistakable voice of a child, and slammed his head against his desk, startled.

Rubbing his head, gritting his teeth, and cursing beneath his breath, Crandell slid his chair back and stood, quickly striding up behind Pedranski, who had only paused the replay seconds earlier. It again proceeded.

_"Tell me, what puzzle did you solve?" _There was a brief pause.

_"I'm good – solved puzzle number nine-nine."_

_"What did you just say? Can you repeat that, please?" _Crandell could hear the incredulity in his friend's voice.

_ "Number __Nine-nine__." _

_ "Can you tell me __how__ you solved ninety-nine?"_

_"You are a stranger – I should __not__ say any-thing."_

_ "Simon, you know you shouldn't be talking with anyone besides me or Daddy, and especially not a stranger."_

_ "No, no, don't –"_ Pedranski's voice was abruptly cut off as the replay ended.

Crandell suddenly felt weak, his heart racing. He leaned heavily against the monitors for support, a look of practically livid disbelief registering on his face.

"What – was that?" Crandell asked, in as livid a tone as was apparent on his face.

"You're asking me, man?"

"Did you trace the GPS?"

"Narrowed it down to Cook County, Illinois before he hung up," Pedranski said, his gaze briefly wandering back to the monitors. "Sounded like a kid."

"That's because it _was_ a kid." Crandell sighed loudly. "Did you check if his phone's GPS was still on?"

Pedranski tapped a few keys in front of him, and suddenly the GPS trace monitor came alive again, already having locked on the signal represented by a red pinpoint, traveling east through the Lower West Side of Chicago.

"And he's in a car – that signal's moving way too fast for him to be on foot," Pedranski observed.

"I thought I heard something like a car engine, even behind all that background noise."

"Guess those advanced audio studies at Harvard are doing you some good after all, Dean."

Crandell gave his friend a sarcastic look – Pedranski simply shrugged and gave Crandell a brief, yet sheepish grin. Turning back to the monitor, both cryptographers watched silently as the GPS signal's movement began to slow, and then stop altogether, six houses from the corner of West Twenty-Third and South Leavitt.

Crandell looked to the now-still signal with curiosity. Turning to Pedranski, he asked, "We got that address on file?"

Pedranski tapped away at the keyboard for a short time, Crandell leaning over his shoulder, and stabbed his finger to one of the adjoining monitors once he was finished.

Peering at the crystal-clear LCD screen, Crandell read away the information while Pedranski traced the digital blueprints of the house with a stylus.

"2144 West Twenty-Third Street, built in 1895. Current owner's name of Lynch, Martin Lynch – he's married, wife's name of Jennifer, and get this – they have a son," Crandell paused, "Name of _Simon_." He paused again as a photocopy of the boy's America ID came up. "He's autistic, which explains the AutCer Simple registered in his name by his parents last May. Medical records indicate he recently recovered from HSP, a type of autoimmune disease. That's what brought him to our attention: the parents put in for federal disability assistance a week ago."

Pedranski sighed, recognizing the name of the boy from the earlier phone call. "That's him, and the fact he's autistic could explain a lot, Dean. But you do know what this all means, right? What the repercussions could be?" Pedranski asked rather pointedly.

"That we need to get Kudrow back from Manhattan right now – You don't have to ask twice, man."

Crandell rushed over to his desk and retrieved his touchphone from atop a pile of food wrappers, already tapping away at the on-screen keys.

"And get Striker down here ASAP." Pedranski paused, swiveling the chair toward Crandell. "Tell him – tell him we have a situation."

* * *

><p>Unbuckling her son's seatbelt, Jenny Lynch eased Simon from the car, his small hand tightly clasping hers, to provide the sense of comfort that he so often lacked. Simon shivered visibly from the unusual chill of the afternoon air, though even that barely covered up the slight limp that he now bore in his stride – a limp brought on by the disease that had ravaged his small form for nearly three weeks.<p>

It had started with Simon complaining of aches, but within days quickly escalated to an excruciating, arthritis-like pain in his joints, and the sudden appearance of red blotches all over his skin. Jenny had been terrified for her son, but the doctors reassured her it wasn't lethal, and that Simon _would_ recover from the disease – HSP, they called it. For nearly three weeks, Jenny and Martin had watched diligently over Simon, checking on him constantly and taking him back to the doctor at least twice during that period. Just last week, the pain stopped and the red blotches disappeared – it appeared that he'd fully recovered. But, he had recently developed a slight limp in his left leg, and they had yet to return to the hospital. It was not a good time, as the care over the past few weeks had all but drained the Lynches of their medical savings, and their application for federal assistance was only a week old.

Briefly stopping at the curb, Simon now diligently lifted his feet up and onto the sidewalk, being careful not to trip, backpack lightly thumping against his back. Placing one foot in front of the other with a dogged determination, Simon navigated the short trip to the front steps and tightly gripped his mother's hand as they slowly made their way up the steps and to the front door, where Jenny proceeded to take out her keys. Watching in fascination as his mother opened the front door, Simon wondered at the intricate shapes of the key and just what made it work. He had always wondered why certain keys only worked with one door of choice – it was seemingly random.

Keys were a most fascinating thing – with precisely laser-cut grooves each was uniquely suited to opening its intended lock and not a single other. Each one fit into pre-designed locks with unmatched precision. Now, they finally began to make sense to Simon.

_Like everything, it just needed a good think-through_.

He then heard a distinct _clack_ as Jenny turned her keys to unlock the door, the dark blue paint around the knob worn with an age that easily surpassed Simon's. Jenny swung the door inward and held it open as her son carefully stepped up and over the threshold, releasing his hand from Jenny's. He was _home_, where nothing of the world could touch him.

Stumbling slowly over to the small bench in the entryway, Simon sat, slumping against the wall, his eyes fixed on the floor, playing over the worn hardwood and braided rug just inside the door.

Jenny hung her light jacket on an empty space of the wooden coat rack and set her purse on the bench beside Simon, just before kneeling to begin unlacing his worn blue sneakers.

_It's incredible_, Jenny thought as she finished unlacing and removing the first of Simon's sneakers_. He can operate a Flexi and albeit simplified touchphone, not to mention easily solving math problems I probably haven't seen since high school, and yet he can't even untie his own shoes_. Jenny already had and long-known why her son couldn't do such simple tasks, but she occasionally allowed herself a period to ask questions she never dared actually say in the presence of her last child. Simon was the one thing that had kept Jenny from descending into a deep, lifelong depression after Benjamin's death and Peter's disappearance within the past nine years.

Removing Simon's last sneaker, Jenny looked up to her son to see him holding the small makeup mirror from her purse and staring into it, a thin smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Smiling briefly herself, Jenny reached her hand out to Simon.

"Come on, honey – let's go get you something from the kitchen."

Taking Jenny's hand, Simon shed his backpack for the time being and rose to his feet – albeit somewhat unsteadily – and began the short trek through the living room to the kitchen, his stockinged feet moving noiselessly across hardwood and the old rugs interspersed across the room.

Shirking slightly upon reaching the linoleum of the kitchen, Simon took the two steps down to it with careful deliberation, the coolness of the surface reaching his sensitive feet even through the warmth of his precious navy blue socks. Releasing his hand from Jenny's gentle hold, Simon made his way to the counter, eyeing the clear ceramic hot-chocolate jar expectantly. Jenny met Simon's gaze and nodded to the table, where his slightly chipped mug sat, empty from that morning's breakfast. Without acknowledging, Simon trotted to the table and retrieved his mug, hands caressing the smooth ceramic, fingers playing over the painted blue animals as he slowly returned to his mother's side.

Setting the mug on the counter, Simon again eyed the hot-chocolate jar as Jenny retrieved a packet from it and handed it to him. He gently ripped the packet open and emptied the contents into the mug, watching as the dusty mix settled and as his mother poured hot water from the waiting percolator, its stainless steel skin glistening with moisture. Simon watched as Jenny filled the mug to an appropriate level and gently pushed it in his direction. Simon took the waiting beverage and again trotted back over to the table, settling into the padded bench-seat as he slowly and carefully sipped away at it, contented.

Jenny set the percolator safely aside – out of Simon's reach – and left her son to enjoy his hot chocolate as she made her way into the mudroom, where baskets full of laundry waited for her.

"Simon, when you're finished with that, wait for me right there – I'll be back soon," she said in a reassuring voice before hefting a basket of yet more laundry under her arm and walking down into the old mudroom. Setting the basket atop the dryer, Jenny threw open the curtains on the back wall, light flooding into her face. She squinted at the midday glare that reflected off the old solar panels in the backyard – angled to face the sun.

_Martin must have adjusted them before he left this morning_.

Jenny quickly reached over to the small thermostat-like display panel situated to the left of the window, a faint digital outline of the house displayed on the tiny touchscreen. Selecting the appropriate setting, Jenny slapped the panel again, at which she was greeted by a familiar tone and message on the display: _Mudroom - Optimum Setting_. Jenny sighed in relief as the window dimmed – _At least the UV Filter's working_ – and set about sorting the laundry.

* * *

><p>Nicholas Kudrow straightened his black tie and suit jacket, rumpled from his trip up the crowded elevator. Ensuring that he looked presentable, Kudrow signed the register and strolled into the Windows on the World restaurant, its elegance still not ceasing to amaze him, even when crowded with nearly two-hundred foreign and domestic dignitaries. Located on the 106th and 107th floors of the World Trade Center's North Tower, the restaurant had been open for over thirty years, and was noted for being both the city's and one of America's most successful, which was why it had been chosen as the venue for the G-11 summit's luncheon. It also offered a nearly unobstructed view of Manhattan and New Jersey, the building's vertical façade columns notwithstanding.<p>

Stopping just within the entrance, Kudrow gazed around, and marveled at the room, all the while looking for the US Secretary of State, Malcolm Richards, who had invited Kudrow on insistence of Kudrow's boss, War Secretary Michael Hughes. Hughes had insisted that Richards invite Kudrow, namely because of his work in helping to secure communications networks among the Group of Eleven nations through use of his 'miracle code', as War-Sec and the Director had called it. And, as far as Kudrow knew, his top cryptologists, Crandell and Pedranski, were, at that moment, finishing that coding on the last of nearly a dozen secure two-way transmitter and receiver installations to be completed within the United States.

Kudrow finally spied Secretary Richards, seated on the far side of the restaurant by one of the windows looking north toward Central Park and Midtown. He immediately started for Richards' table, weaving between the many foreign dignitaries. He stopped several times, greeting multiple figures of state, including the Prime Minister of Ethiopia, and the defense ministers of Korea and the Soviet Union, all of whom returned the greeting and gave Kudrow their praise for his work.

He finally reached Secretary Richards' table after briefly conversing with the Soviet defense minister, receiving a warm welcome from the Secretary as he strolled up.

"Nick, I'm glad you could make it," Richards said in greeting, firmly shaking Kudrow's hand.

"Me too, Mr. Secretary," Kudrow returned, releasing Richards' handshake and seating himself across from the secretary, taking notice of the lack of other people at the table.

Richards quickly noticed Kudrow's look at their empty surroundings. "As for my wife, she apparently didn't get enough caviar in Lyon last year – and as for Byrnes, I guess his kid must be giving him trouble."

Though surprised, Kudrow hardly let it show, and instead reached for the menu sitting at his place. "Byrnes? As in—"

"Charles Byrnes? Unfortunately, yes." Richards sighed, settling back into his seat. "Man's practically bought a ticket since the Vancouver summit in '81. Hell, Nick, that's longer than I've been in office – he's seen Reagan, Bush, and Clinton come and go at these things, and I thought _I'd_ seen it all in five years."

"I could say that he runs the company that basically invented modern medicine starting with NCD back in '78, not to mention that they're also the War Department's top contractor, but – you already know that."

Richards sighed and chuckled, nodding in agreement. "That's true," he said, sipping champagne from a flute glass.

"Pardon me, sir, but the man's an ass."

Kudrow's straightforwardness made Richards roar with laughter, which, though loud in its own right, could scarcely be discerned from the constant buzz among the dignitaries throughout the room. In fact, the noise was loud enough that Kudrow could barely hear the waiter as he gave his order: a New York sirloin with red wine sauce and a bottle of '65 white Pomelo. Expensive, he knew – _But as long as I'm not paying for it, so much the better_. _Not as if I __couldn't__ pay for it, but, still_...

As the waiter left bearing Kudrow's order, the Colonel noticed Richards' wife, Cynthia, returning, carrying a plate of caviar. She took notice of Kudrow only just as she was seating herself and extended her arm in greeting as Kudrow was standing again to return the favor.

"Nick," she said, shaking Kudrow's hand. "How long has it been?"

Kudrow released her grip and they both sat back down. "It was that café in Georgetown four years ago – just before the bombing here."

"Right, because that was also when you were talking about –"

Richards interrupted his wife. "Cynthia, we're at a G-11 summit – not your Alexandria Women's Society meeting."

"I know that, but I figured since Nick was here –"

Richards gave his wife a look of disapproval, at which she began eating her caviar – beluga, of course. The woman almost couldn't seem to live without it.

Chuckling, and distracted by this exchange between his old friends, Kudrow was startled as a touchphone was suddenly thrust into his face. He turned to the person holding it – one of the restaurant staff, who was looking somewhat startled himself.

"Yes?"

"You Nicholas Kudrow, sir?"

"Not unless you got the wrong one," Kudrow replied sarcastically, a slight grin turning the corners of his mouth.

The staffer looked even more bewildered.

Kudrow resumed his deadpan look. "Yes, I'm Kudrow – what is it?"

The staffer quickly regained his composure. "Sir, you have a call from an Andrew Striker. It sounds urgent."

Excusing himself from the table, Kudrow snatched the phone from the staffer's hand and swiftly left his seat, weaving between various dignitaries and restaurant personnel, making for the entrance hall, where it would be quieter and far more private.

Stopping across from the elevators, he pressed the phone to his ear and whispered harshly into the mouthpiece. "Striker! You know where I am – I was just sitting down to lunch with the Secretary of State and his wife, so this better be damn important!"

Striker's surprisingly calm and collected voice responded. "Sir – we have a breach."

Kudrow's heart skipped a beat. "What? Was there a break-in at the facility?"

_As impossible as that sounded..._

"I almost wish it were that simple, sir."

"Quit speaking in riddles!" Kudrow hissed, his anxiety rising quickly.

Striker could tell he was getting fed up. "It's the code."

Kudrow's heart almost skipped _two_ beats this time – his body stiffened and staggered backward against the wall, with an elegance more belying a falling statue than a human being. He breathed heavily, still tightly clutching the phone in his right hand, and not speaking, still too shocked for words.

"Are you still there, sir?"

Striker's query finally brought Kudrow from his stupor, his body now practically going limp, with his left hand releasing its grip on the wall. "Yes, Major." He coughed. "Tell Pedranski and Crandell to check this source out – whatever it is – if they've not already done so, and if they have – check and re-check it. I want them to positively verify this before we jump to any conclusions."

"Agreed, sir," Striker's grating voice responded.

"And, tell them to have a report ready for me in five hours."

Striker's normally impassive tone grew puzzled. "Sir?"

"You heard me, Major – I'm leaving ASAP." Kudrow sighed heavily. "There are _very_ few things that trump an invitation to a G-11 summit, and this is one that qualifies."

"Yes sir – see you at 1800."

_Click_.

That sound finally ended what had been one of the most shocking moments of Nicholas Kudrow's life. Again, he staggered backward, but quickly recovered and made for the elevators, suddenly halting in his tracks midway and whirling back toward the restaurant entryway.

He rushed up to the greeter and motioned in Secretary Richards' direction. "Could you please tell Secretary Malcolm Richards that I won't be able to re-join him – I have some official business to attend to."

The greeter shrugged his shoulders uncertainly. "Well, yes—"

Kudrow patted the younger man's shoulder and nodded to him, returning the borrowed phone. "Thank you very much – good day." He whirled around again and rushed back to the elevators.

The greeter turned and strode quickly into the restaurant, bewildered at witnessing Kudrow's behavior.

Impatient and worrying, Kudrow paced in front of the elevators, waiting anxiously for one to open. _How could this happen?, _he mused. Kudrow slammed his fist into the wall, frustrated and groaning. _Pedranski and Crandell promised it was secure, that this one was it – not a miserable, grating failure like their previous attempts_. _I hope this is some kind of __really__ bad joke, because I've simply spent too much on this one to just 'let it go'._

Interrupting his thoughts, the elevator to Kudrow's left finally ground open, its doors creaking as they slid into the wall. Kudrow bolted toward it, only to jump back as a pair of waiters emerged, slowly pushing a serving cart piled high with platters and trays empty of food. Kudrow whirled around to the opposite elevator, just as it creaked open as well, and cautiously approached, not wanting to run headlong into someone else.

Kudrow watched as a man, about six feet tall and in his late forties, stride from the elevator, wearing a crisp black suit jacket, tie, and pants, medium brown hair neatly combed, with only a few hints of gray around the edges. A young boy of perhaps nine or ten, also possessing a head of brown medium-length hair and similarly attired, closely followed. The man, apparently the father, stopped, bent to his knees, and turned the boy toward him, straightening his tie. "Come on, CJ – you've been coming with me to these since you were six. You'd think you'd have learned to keep your ties on straight."

The boy protested. "But Dad, that's just it – it's only been three years since I started coming with you, and it's a year between each of these summits, so that's a long time to forget."

The father sighed and stood. "I suppose you're right." He suddenly noticed Kudrow waiting. "Oh, I'm sorry – were you waiting for us?"

Kudrow nodded, impatience invisibly rising within him.

"We were just heading in anyway – come on, CJ. I think we've gotten on this man's nerves enough."

Kudrow turned and jabbed at the elevator button yet again, before stopping and turning back to the man and his son, snapping his fingers. "You're Charles Byrnes, aren't you?"

The man stopped, halfway between the elevators and the entry, and turned back to Kudrow. "You guess well, Colonel Kudrow."

Kudrow nodded. "Touché, Mr. Byrnes." He paused and gestured to CJ. "And do I correctly guess that that's your son?"

"You do indeed."

CJ turned and looked to Kudrow, the boy's piercing green eyes seeming to bore into the older man with a gaze of amazement and awe. "Are you really a Colonel, mister?"

Allowing a slow smile to replace his look of frustration, Kudrow bent to eye level with the boy. "That I am, young man."

"Dad says you do really important stuff, like, like classified stuff for the government."

Kudrow looked up to Byrnes, who shrugged. "Hey, that's all I say about you – not like I'm telling him classified info for bedtime stories."

Chuckling, Kudrow stood and patted CJ on the head, slightly matting his slicked-back dark brown hair. "If you'll excuse me, I've got business to attend to."

Byrnes nodded to Kudrow. "Of course – come on, son; let's not hold the good colonel any longer."

CJ now looked up to his father as they entered the restaurant. "Dad, why was he in such a big hurry?"

Byrnes smoothed his son's hair and looked down to him, patting him on the shoulder.

"I don't know, son."

_But I'd sure like to find out_.

Kudrow faced back toward the elevator and sighed heavily once Byrnes was out of earshot, his anxiety finally relieved even as the elevator creaked open and he walked inside, leaning heavily against the mahogany wall panel as the doors closed and the car began the first leg of Kudrow's one-hundred-seven story descent.

* * *

><p>"Okay, people – you've all done a great job here today, so let's wrap things up!"<p>

Special Agent Art Jeffries had heard many words of praise after a successful op over the fourteen years of his career with the FBI. This time, however, it meant something totally different to the forty-one year-old agent as he exited the shattered lobby of Yorktown's AN Tower and onto the plaza surrounding the building, glass crunching beneath his feet.

Jeffries had just finished the longest and most successful undercover job of his career, to no surprise for those few that knew him, but had astonished the average bureau newbie and seasoned field agent alike with his bold recklessness in capturing Michael Raines.

Raines had long been linked to multiple domestic terror acts, including the '95 Oklahoma City bombing, where he'd supplied Timothy McVeigh with the explosives that had killed one-hundred sixty-eight, including nineteen children. Already a veteran undercover agent at the time, Jeffries was disgusted by McVeigh's actions, and, as part of a unique passion for his work, the FBI had assigned him to uncover the supplier and any further conspirators aside from the four already in custody. This had taken Jeffries over two years of undercover work posing as 'Peter Kane' – an FBI reject – going through nearly a half-dozen prominent anti-American militia and domestic terror groups.

These included radical Edgar Halstrom in central Dakota, fanatic Zane Isaacs in Nova Scotia, Euro-Mafia boss Karl Decker in Iowa, drug lord Felipe Raoul in Arizona and Baja, and finally to Raines himself in Erie on the two-year anniversary of the '95 OKC bombing. Raines had held a long-standing hatred for the national government – it was now definitively known that he had been behind the '86 Charleston, Virginia bombings and possibly even the '82 Brownburg shootings as well – but the true reason for his madness was unknown to even his closest confidants, not uncommon for an individual of his stature.

Raines' final plan had been to bomb and destroy the AN Tower in Yorktown, the largest city in the state of Erie. And, with over a thousand people in and around the tower at any given time, it would have been by far the greatest loss of life on American soil since the Civil War and the most devastating terrorist attack ever in America, if not for the timely intervention by local FBI SWAT and EOD teams. Upon reaching the tower grounds, they'd engaged in a skirmish with Raines' men on the park grounds surrounding the tower and in the tower lobby – a skirmish that had erupted into a full-blown gun battle.

After over thirty minutes of a prolonged and bloody stalemate, Jeffries had pulled Raines aside and desperately tried to convince him that surrender was the only option. Eventually Raines had relented to Jeffries' advice, the instinct for survival outweighing even _his_ fanaticism. He'd surrendered, but not after most of his men, including his explosives expert, had been killed in the gun battle, leaving the organization effectively crippled and finally making Jeffries' mission a success.

Jeffries smiled to himself as he breathed the cool morning air and exhaled, a thin cloud of vapor wafting skyward.

"You'll never get away with this! You can't stop me!"

Jeffries turned to see a pair of SWAT agents escorting Raines, cuffed and chained, from the command post to a waiting van, protesting loudly. He spied Jeffries and snarled, struggling to escape in his direction, but the agents held him in an iron grip.

"I'll get you for this – whoever you are! Yes, yes!" Raines then began laughing. This quickly devolved into an insane and maniacal cackling, making Jeffries turn away and roll his eyes in bewilderment as the insane man was hauled to a waiting prison transport.

Jeffries whistled as he shoved his hands into his rumpled dark brown jacket and began leisurely strolling across the park toward the Lakedome, reveling in the satisfaction of a job well-done and the feeling of being himself again after two years. _Undercover work is hell, but it's my job, I somewhat enjoy it, and it pays – so what,_ he thought.

The heavy fog from Lake Ontario still lingered in shadows cast by downtown, the morning sun unable to penetrate those shadows to burn it away. Jeffries found the faint tinges of diesel and gasoline that hung in the air surprisingly tolerable, especially when compared to the abandoned power station in the Port Lands lakeshore district that Raines had occupied – the area had permeated with the rank smell of oil, sawdust, and more often than not, dead fish. He took a deep breath of the cool, clean air – something he couldn't quite say for most other places he'd been over the past two years.

But, that was just it – the past – and Jeffries wasn't going to ponder over it any more than he had to for his SA-1 debrief back in Chicago.

"Agent Jeffries, phone call!"

Jeffries whirled around to meet Michael Porter, A-SAC (Assistant Special Agent in Charge) of the city field office jogging toward him, touchphone in hand.

"Who is it?!" Jeffries asked.

Stopping in front of Jeffries, Porter adopted a sly grin. "Been sworn to secrecy, Jeffries."

"You've been sworn to secrecy your whole career – _Miko_."

Porter passed Jeffries the phone, his tone dripping sarcasm. "As long as I've been with the Bureau, you're still the only one who calls me that." He turned abruptly and picked up an impressive stride as he made his way back toward the Tower's base and the FBI's on-site command post.

Figuring whoever was on the phone was getting impatient, Jeffries decided he'd make light of Porter's longstanding nickname later.

He answered. "Jeffries."

"You clean up nice, Art." The tone was familiar, and belied a person of strength – Tommy Jordan – Jeffries' best friend and A-SAC of the Bureau's Chicago field office.

Jeffries chuckled – it was a voice he'd not heard in a long time. "So, it's been awhile, huh?"

"Not unless you call two years a day, yeah, man. It's been a hell of a long time." Tommy paused. "And about Raines?"

"A fanatic, with borderline – now complete – insanity to boot. Fortunately, too ambitious to go beyond the '95 OKC bombing. This plan of his didn't quite strike me as very original – the man was thinking like an underpaid construction worker when it came to executing the demolition phase."

"Well, it's not exactly like he was ever a trained expert, unlike half the militia guys we tangle with."

Jeffries shrugged. "I suppose there's no one in the Bureau who hasn't come to expect—"

A loud _whump_, followed by a muffled _boom_, echoed from behind Jeffries and he whirled around to see a cloud of smoke and dust rising from the park not two hundred feet beyond the command post.

"Dammit!"

Jeffries bolted the next hundred yards or so, brushing past surviving members of Raines' group. They were also being prepped for transport, to the Federal Detention Facility at East Barry, an isolated town forty-five miles or so to the north of the city.

Tommy's anxious voice sounded from the phone as Jeffries trampled through planter beds of flowers and bushes. "What happened, Art?!"

"Looks like someone bungled and forgot their EOD training – probably left one of the detonators armed." He stopped about fifty feet away to sight a nervous-looking Porter, chewing out one of his team members. "I'm going to have to call you back, Tommy."

"Just remember – the SA-1 starts at 6:00 tonight, so you better have your sorry hide on that transport plane in the next hour."

"I got it." Jeffries hung up and sighed. _Work is hell_. He was quick to adopt a purposeful and angry stride toward Porter. Sighting Jeffries stalking toward him, Porter waved his cringing and sheepish-looking team member away and turned to face the undercover agent, adopting somewhat of a sheepish look of his own.

Jeffries made a series of confusing hand signals that Porter had absolutely no idea the meaning of. "Porter! What the hell happened?!"

"How in the world should I know, Jeffries?"

"I thought your guys were _trained_ EOD experts."

Porter gritted his teeth. "They are. There was just – a little accident."

"A little accident?!" Jeffries exclaimed. He gestured to the crater – "Just look at that!"

Porter took a split second to survey the damage – chunks of concrete and glass littered the entire area, small tongues of flame eating away at a medium-sized evergreen laying amidst a pile of dirt and shattered pottery on the far edge of the crater.

He chuckled briefly. "Okay – let me rephrase that."

"Rephrase, hell," Jeffries said. "Whose stinking hide do you think the city and state's gonna pin this on?"

Porter shrugged.

"The whole damn Bureau, Porter! That's who!"

"Okay, I couldn't have known this would happen, Jeffries."

Porter was getting defensive.

Jeffries noticed this and took advantage of it. "Do you even know how much the Bureau's put into helping keep my cover intact the past two years?"

The younger agent shrugged and shook his head. "No, and again – how should I know?!"

"Far more than you will ever know." Jeffries sighed – obviously exasperated – before continuing. "One of your EOD lackeys, who, I'm sure a ten year-old boy would be more experienced than, goes and blows up public property. I mean, we were already going to be paying the city and American National for the firefight, but this – I wouldn't blame the Director if he hangs your sorry hide out to dry down in San Lucas."

Porter shuddered uncomfortably at the thought, choking back a sudden lump that had formed in his throat. Jeffries had to be joking. Located at the southernmost end of Baja California and one of the most lawless cities in the US – though not quite on the same level as L.A. or Caborca – San Lucas was a death sentence for even some of the most seasoned of field agents.

"You're not serious, are you?"

Jeffries chuckled briefly. "No, no I'm not."

His face now grew dead serious. "But, you'd know if I was."

Porter breathed a sigh of relief.

"But...don't think that what you did to get up to A-SAC in only five years isn't going to come back and haunt you someday, Porter – because, it _will_."

The younger agent shuddered again, his heart racing. _How could he know? No, he couldn't possibly know – he's bluffing._

Jeffries clicked his tongue and shook his head as he stared down at his watch. "My, my where has the time gone?" He paused and looked back up at Porter. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a plane to catch."

"Good for you."

Giving Porter a look of mock sympathy, Jeffries slapped him on the back. "Tough it out, fella."

Porter just stared at the ground, dumbfounded, as Jeffries began jogging back across the plaza to the street. Suddenly remembering Porter's phone, Jeffries slid it from his jacket pocket and tossed it into the air in Porter's direction. "Catch!"

Looking up from his stupor, Porter flinched as he saw his phone arcing through the air and extended his arms in an effort to retrieve it. He watched in horror as it sailed just beyond his reach, struck the ground behind him and disintegrated, shredded circuits flying everywhere – even the hardened protective case couldn't absorb _that_ kind of impact. Porter growled and turned back in Jeffries' direction, a scowl on his face, his brows deeply furrowed. Jeffries simply smirked, shrugged, and bolted to a black SUV waiting at the curb that rather quickly peeled away, burning rubber and leaving a trail of white-gray smoke that lingered for a short time before a light breeze scattered it in the direction of the plaza.

Fuming, Porter bent down to scoop up what was left of his phone, fingering cracked and shattered circuits, some of which further disintegrated in his hands. In frustration, he grabbed the protective case, mostly empty save for the plastic shell of the phone itself, and hurled it in the direction of a nearby pavilion, where it made contact with one of the polished sandstone perimeter columns and ricocheted. Porter heard the dull _thud_ of the ricochet, but had very little time to ponder it, as the case suddenly slammed into his head edge-on, just above his right ear.

A spear of pain exploded in Porter's head as he reached his left hand up to the growing welt and pulled it away sharply as a second jolt of pain wracked his head. He looked to his hand, which felt oddly wet and sticky: his fingers were smeared red with blood – his own. Suddenly, Porter felt light-headed and dizzy, his vision blurring. He began desperately and vigorously rubbing his hand on the ground, to rid his sight of the blood. _Almost, almost_ – _c'mon!_ His vision then began to black out – _Too late_ – and he fainted, body falling limply to the ground, arms flailing futilely.

Now seeming to float in a pitch black world, Porter thought to himself, _I'd __really__ like to know how he does that!_

* * *

><p>A thousand-odd miles away and several hours later, sitting behind his desk, Nicholas Kudrow pondered over a similar idea, but about their young mystery caller who'd done what no man or machine had ever been able to do – break a quantum-level encryption. Then again, quantum encryptions were relatively new, so they didn't exactly have a baseline for comparison. The forty year-old dropped his head into his hands and sighed – this was the one thing even his twenty years of a well-spent government career couldn't have prepared him for. Kudrow lifted his head and glanced off to his left, watching as his personnel bandied about and busied themselves with the complex work that had been assigned to many of them seventeen years ago, when Division had first been formed.<p>

The one and only thing that separated Kudrow from the main floor was two stories and thin, yet surprisingly strong and rigid soundproof glass, glass that he could swear he saw vibrate sometimes. Then again, he could swear he saw gray hairs fall from his head every morning – not much to go by. But, Kudrow couldn't have any personnel question his loyalty to the government and what it stood for simply because of his seniority, either. Fortunately, no one questioned it now, and certainly very few, if any one person had ever questioned it, period.

A sudden and loud rapping on the office's heavy mahogany door brought Kudrow from his stupor. He rubbed his reddening eyes and sighed heavily, exhausted. "Come in."

In came Striker, gingerly bearing a beige manila folder that looked older than his grizzled face, which – as usual – was impassable as if set in stone. _That_ had come from the man's long years of training and experience as a major with Special Forces, something Kudrow had once dreamed of doing himself, but had washed out after failing a physical exam at Ft. Detrick in the final years of the Indonesia conflict. Even so, he had still been able to serve his country, but as more of a career politician than a military officer.

His rank of _Colonel_ was more honorary than anything else, though his duties usually did fall somewhere in between the nitpicking of politics and the generally rigid order of the military.

Breaking from his brief reminiscence of a long-failed path to glory, Kudrow folded his hands and looked up at Striker, who now stood to attention in front of the desk, folder neatly tucked under his arm. After staring at each other for a time, Kudrow finally broke the oppressive silence. "Well?"

"Sir?" Striker's impassable look broke and turned to one of confusion.

Kudrow nodded to the file. "The _file_, Striker – the _file_."

"Yes, sir – sorry about that." Striker's face again quickly adopted its well-practiced look of impassability and he handed the file to his commanding officer. There were few who knew him otherwise, and Kudrow was one of them.

Upon opening the file, Kudrow was greeted by a color photo of a young and pale face of a boy that couldn't have been more than nine or ten. The colonel looked back up to Striker with incredulity. "_This_ is our culprit?"

Striker merely nodded affirmatively.

Shaking his head, Kudrow looked back down at the picture and sparse biographical information that lay before him, taking it in in greater detail. The boy's somewhat shaggy medium brown hair poked from beneath his Cubs baseball cap and almost obscured his olive-green eyes. His head was almost too big for his relatively thin, short frame, despite even a thick red and blue scarf wrapped tightly about his neck that both seemed to somewhat make up for his shortcomings of stature and be out of place in the overly sunny environment at the same time. And, just as Kudrow had thought – he was a little over nine years old.

"Hell, Striker – this is just a kid."

"He's – let's see if I can put this as gently as possible sir – _handicapped_."

Kudrow looked back at the file and soon saw what Striker meant, lengthily written in his secretary Jean's handwriting –

_ This child has possessed significant mental impairment since birth, something that many derogatorily describe as __**'**__retardation__**'**__, but what is clinically diagnosed as autism, a condition that is characterized by restrictive or repetitive behavior, and greatly impaired social interactions and communication as well. The differences that separate autism from mental retardation is that people with retardation typically suffer from either brain damage or unfortunate lack of intelligence, while those with autism are simply both unable to express themselves or interact properly with those around them, and __not__ an unfortunate lack of intelligence. Observation of Simon Lynch indicates that he exhibits characteristic autistic behavior, but he has also exhibited uncanny intelligence in the area of mathematics __–__ shown by test forms submitted by his parents to schools and universities across the country since 1994. In particular, one of these forms, submitted to Caltech three years ago, displayed knowledge of college-level and higher mathematics __–__ this is almost unprecedented, and classifies Lynch in the category of 1/3 of known autistics, who exhibit unique abilities in areas such as mathematics, literature, or music. They are collectively known as autistic savants. _

_ And lastly, it is my belief that this young man does not represent a threat to the code's security and he should be treated gently, in accordance with his condition. This certainly requires a simple approach and not one of sheer force, in order for this 'subject' not to be harmed._

Kudrow closed the file, the words echoing in his head as though repeatedly spoken by a silent voice, with a persistent thought nagging at him as well. What was it? He sighed heavily and looked back up to a passively impatient Striker, folding his hands.

"You know how Division rules mandate that we deal with even the slightest potential threat to organization and national security within whatever is deemed necessary?"

"Yes, sir – I've know them almost as long as you have – probably even longer," Striker stated matter-of-factly.

The colonel sighed. "Then you know what –" Kudrow hesitated, voice filled with uncertainty. "–what we have to do."

Striker nodded and replied, almost coldly. "That simply coddling the boy won't do, sir. That we can't let what he may or may not know fall into enemy hands should they become aware of this – 'incident'."

"And we can't assume they haven't," Kudrow scoffed.

"Not if these papers carelessly bandied around the country by the boy's parents are any indication."

Striker paused briefly, to let this sink in before continuing in a now purely cold and emotionless tone that made even Kudrow involuntarily shudder.

"He is a security leak waiting to happen – the repercussions of such an event could be staggering, sir." Striker stopped to let it sink in. "We'd lose our credibility with every nation involved in the project, not to mention the domestic and international fallout, plus the fact hundreds of agents worldwide would be compromised."

Kudrow pursed his lips. "That's – that's true. And, not to mention the nearly half-billion we've spent over the past six years – that'll be down the drain, period." _And all this backstabbing and money laundering at the Pentagon will have been for nothing, especially once Hughes finds out that three hundred and some UCs have been slaughtered overnight._

A few minutes passed in total silence as Kudrow contemplated his choices, while the only noise to be heard was the humming of the overhead lights that to Striker seemed to grow dimmer by the day. _Or –_ _maybe it's just my imagination_, Striker thought as he dropped into one of the overly-cushioned office chairs, his feet exhausted.

Finally, Kudrow sighed, his face of reluctance now turned to one of determination, though Striker could still sense hesitancy in the colonel's voice. "Major, use whatever force or means you know are deemed necessary – this has to be contained before it gets out of hand."

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later, Striker made his way from Division's main building and into the open and unusually cool afternoon air, phone already out. Several tedious, buzzing rings later, someone finally answered.<p>

"I was wondering if you'd ever call again," a man asked, gruff impatience registering in his voice.

Striker answered. "Sir, I think we've found that opportunity you've been looking for."

* * *

><p><em>AN: __I know, I know. At first glance, some of the terms used in here are a bit confusing, sure. But it's an AU, so..._

_If anyone wants a bit more detail on the world of **Alternity** in general, Google 'althistory wikia alternity'. I leave you to find out from there. Hopefully, it'll fill in some of the blanks. __Two guesses as to where I got Porter's nickname from..._

_And, I hope my description of the differences between autism and mental retardation is fairly accurate._


	3. Fragility

_**Two**_

_**Fragility**_

* * *

><p><em>June 5 – 9:04 p.m.<em>

_Three hours later…_

"What do you mean I can't get in to see him?!" Art Jeffries fumed as he stood impatiently by the main desk of FBI Chicago's outer office, the young female secretary taken aback at his outburst.

"I – I don't know, sir," she stuttered.

"What do you mean you don't know – Where the hell is Lomax?!"

The secretary shuddered, looking as if she was ready to cry, and restated her answer: "I can't tell you that because I don't know, sir."

Jeffries was practically livid and completely ignored her. "Why can't you tell me?! Huh?!"

He was now so occupied with berating the secretary that he didn't notice as the inner office's double doors swung open and an African American man – in his mid-forties and of a heavy build, with short-cropped black hair – strode through.

The secretary spotted the man and slumped to her desk, relieved. Puzzled, Jeffries now froze as he felt a large and firm hand on his shoulder.

_There's only one man who has that effect on people_… He turned to see a face he hadn't seen in almost three years.

"Tommy."

"Hey, man – it's good to see you," Tommy said as they shook hands and gave each other brief bear hugs.

A few seconds later, Tommy slapped Jeffries in the back – he grunted and staggered with the blow. Tommy then looked to the secretary and gave her a look of sympathy.

"He's my problem now, Jeanne. And don't worry – he's sorry – it's just that he just hasn't said it yet." Jeanne nodded to Tommy as he ushered Jeffries away, wordless, but grateful nonetheless.

Tommy stopped just as they were behind the doors and especially out of earshot of the secretary and slapped Jeffries in the back of the head, abruptly breaking his determined stride.

The grizzled Jeffries looked surprised. "What the hell was that for, man?!"

"You know full well what that was for. _Even_ you should know enough not to berate someone for just doing their job."

Jeffries scoffed. "'Just doing their job'? Like Porter?"

"Porter." Tommy snorted. "I'd be surprised if that twerp knew how to drive. And, unlike him, Jeanne _does_ know what she's doing – she's been here for going on six months now, and I was just starting to think she'd settled in, but then again, I forgot about you."

Shifting on his feet, Jeffries finally conceded. "Okay, Tommy – you win. Now, where is Lomax?"

Tommy now chuckled nervously. "About that…"

Jeffries saw the look of uncertainty in his friend's eyes and bolted for Joe Lomax's office, hurriedly weaving between an old gray cubicle – adorned with pictures of an agent's family – and a janitor's cart filled with rags and bottles of cleaner, nearly knocking the latter over in his mad rush across the main floor. He burst into Lomax's dimly-lit office to find the room unoccupied, but somewhat of a mess, with boxes and piles of paper scattered over the desk and by the far window, thin rays of orange light piercing the blinds – reminding Jeffries of his high school principal's office.

He entered, without even adjusting the dim overhead light, looking around the office in bewilderment. Tommy followed, a somewhat amused look on his face, and raised the light setting from 'low' to 'normal'. The light quickly brightened to a more normal level, better illuminating the mess that covered the five-shelf bookcase on the back wall: papers hung at odd angles from the top and middle shelves, overstuffed cardboard boxes sat on the bottom, with various picture frames crammed inside, and stacks of old files – some still unlabeled – covered the remaining two.

This wasn't like Lomax to leave such a mess.

At last Jeffries cast his eyes on the desk, and his eyes widened with surprise. Lomax's usual miniature cartographer-style globe and Clancy-autographed copy of _The Hunt for Red October_ were missing, not to mention the rows of Post-It reminders neatly arranged along the top of the blotter. Lomax never moved any of these things, almost like they were sacred objects to be revered by some tribal religion in the South Pacific. But, that wasn't what truly caught Jeffries' eye: it was the label on the nameplate.

It read _Thomas B. Jordan, S.A.C_.

Jeffries turned slowly to face Tommy, who was still standing in the doorway, a sly grin on his face. Now chuckling, he closed the door and sat in the high-backed leather swivel chair behind the desk, keeping his eyes out for Jeffries' next reaction.

A few seconds passed in silence, Tommy still grinning at Art before finally speaking.

"Well?"

Silence followed as Jeffries sat in one of the low-backed, thinly padded chairs across the desk from Tommy.

"Art," Tommy whistled and snapped his fingers, "You in there?"

Jeffries finally replied, coming out of his stupor. "Yeah, I'm still here, Tommy."

"So?"

"So what?"

"What do you think?"

"What of?" Jeffries replied cynically, but with an underlying tone Tommy couldn't quite place at that moment.

"'What of?!'" Tommy exclaimed. He gestured around the office with his right hand in exaggerated motions, now on the verge of frustration. "This!"

Now it was Jeffries' turn to grin. "Surprising is one word."

Tommy rolled his eyes as the man startled chuckling, too.

_Typical Art_.

"Congrats on the promotion, Tom. It's about time you moved up in the Bureau, and besides, I was getting tired of Lomax even before the Raines job. Though, I admit I almost ended up even missing him, especially after two years undercover with an anti-government psycho's militia."

"You sure take a long time getting to the point, Art."

"That's what they pay me for. Not too terribly well, mind you, but it gets me by well enough."

Tommy sighed in agreement. "I know the feeling."

"Don't we all."

Another few seconds of pause ticked by in silence before Tommy spoke up again.

"There's something else, Art, speaking of your pay and your job."

Jeffries grew somewhat wary at this. "What about them?"

Sighing, Tommy continued. "We both know you're a good UC, Art, and everyone in this office respects you for that."

_Yeah, and..? _

Almost as if he could read Jeffries' mind, Tommy picked up in mid-thought.

"And, well, since about a week ago, with your last contact before the raid, which was about when Lomax handed things over to me, the brass and higher ups in D.C. have been going through your file."

"And?"

"And, they're impressed – even more so since this morning."

Jeffries sighed. "Come on, man. Get to the point."

"I was kind of hoping you'd say that." Tommy paused. "What this all boils down to, Art, is that the Bureau has taken you off undercover status indefinitely."

"Does this mean you're firing me?" Jeffries asked, his tone taking on a bit of anger.

Tommy shook his head and scoffed. "No. What on earth gave you that idea?"

"Well, it was the way you worded it..."

"You gonna let me finish?"

Exasperated, Jeffries waved his arms in the air in a gesture of surrender. Silence pervaded the room.

"No, we're not letting you go – even the suits upstairs know you're too valuable to dump in some nondescript corner media store, checking labels on old VHS tapes. And which is why they've given you a new job: my old one."

"A-SAC?" Jeffries scoffed, incredulous. "You know that I'm no pencil-pusher or some desk jockey far better than anyone else."

"I know, but D.C.'s been pushing for you to take something of a rest period for quite a while, and this was the only thing I could convince them to come up with – _aside_ from letting you go – on short notice."

Jeffries aimlessly scratched at the back of his head, not saying anything.

"Look, man – take a week or two off. God knows you've earned it, and _relax_. You do remember how to relax, right? Take a break?"

Jeffries nodded. "Yeah."

"Then take it. Go to Hawaii or Florida – I don't care. Get your hide onto a plane to someplace tropical and relaxing in the next two days, or I'll have the psych team come and have a sit-down with you."

Jeffries quickly changed his mind.

He hated the psych team: Franklin and Miller. Their psychobabble could drive a grown man to tears, not to mention how they had the annoying knack for digging into the areas of people's lives that they most wanted buried forever, and airing that person's dirty laundry for all to see. It was like having your pants fall down at a wedding reception or accidentally swearing in front of your girlfriend's goody two-shoes mother. Or even worse, your parents asking what kept you out till one-thirty in the morning prom night your senior year of high school.

Not as if he had done any of these things personally... But Jeffries knew that was the kind of thing those two 'cuckoo experts' from out east were all too good at doing.

"Well," Jeffries started, "I have wanted to see where they filmed _Jurassic Park_ back in '92."

"Fine by me, even better for you, man. Take yourself to Hawaii, find your dinosaurs, and sack out at Waikiki. Just go."

Jeffries stood and started for the door, suddenly almost, what – _excited?_ He might not even remember what excitement was for now, not for another few days, at least. But if it was excitement, it was for good reason: thoughts of a white sandy beach, martinis, and women in skimpy swimsuits ran through his mind.

"Just another couple things, Art."

He stopped, hand on the doorknob. "Trying to delay me? You're the one who suggested a vacation."

"Trust me; you'll want to hear what I have to say. One, your effects are out of storage and waiting downstairs, which, I grant you, wasn't a whole lot to begin with, but, you've got all new cards and the latest model touchphone to start off with, and two, courtesy of Uncle Sam, you've got almost a quarter-million sitting pretty in your bank account. So, feel free to spend it any way you like, tax free."

Jeffries scoffed. "That's a lot of money."

"That's what you get, two years of hunting down domestic terrorists, and a couple of raises in pay grade along the way."

"No kidding," Jeffries said in a dumbfounded and mildly sarcastic voice.

Tommy waved him out the door. "Get out of here, you. I better not see you in this office for another week, at least."

"Yeah, I hear ya." With this, Jeffries ducked out of the office and back onto the main floor. Tommy leaned back in his chair, sighing in relief. But just as soon as he was gone, Art was right back again, leaning his head in through the door.

"What is it now, Art?"

"Just one question: Tax free, right?"

Tommy sighed, laughing in exasperation. "Tax free. Now git!"

With that, he was finally gone.

_Now _I_ want a vacation_, Tommy thought, again looking around the disaster-area of an office, and sighing loudly.

* * *

><p>"Maybe I am crazy!"<p>

The familiar voice of Woody Woodpecker blared from the old flatscreen near the front windows as Martin Lynch staggered in through the front door, feet aching, and hands blistered. He removed his pair of worn, white-gray Nikes and threw them onto the surprisingly clean shoe mat without so much as a second look over his shoulder. He glanced over to see Simon settled deeply into the old dark gray sofa, pillows piled around him, and the TV remote lying at his feet, too engrossed in the cartoon to even notice Martin.

"Hey, buddy – how ya doing?" Martin asked as he walked around behind the sofa and gently tousled his son's hair.

After a few seconds, Simon responded, slightly nodding his head.

"Hi, Daddy. I am good." He over enunciated these last three words, struggling because he wasn't used to speaking in proper sentences. Simon's vocal skills used to consist of one-word responses, but he had worked on it.

_I guess Dr. Carter's therapy's working after all_, Martin thought as he patted Simon on the shoulder and started for the kitchen, where he caught sight of Jenny peering into the refrigerator. She emerged with a plastic-wrapped bundle.

His dinner, most likely.

"Hi you. You're late."

Martin sighed.

"Long day, hon?"

"You have no idea."

He then swept Jenny into a hug and kissed her before blowing a raspberry on her cheek, making her laugh like a schoolgirl. Even Simon, still out on the sofa, giggled.

Taking the food, Martin set it down on the counter and peeled away the layer of plastic to find his dinner: a pair of cooked hamburgers already on the buns, topped with lettuce and onions at that. And still surprisingly warm, too.

"Jen, you didn't have to..."

"Of course I did, Martin. I'd do anything for my boys."

Martin tiredly grinned. "Don't I know it."

He tossed the burgers onto a nearby empty plate and stalked wearily over to the table, sitting heavily on the old wall bench. Sighing with relief, he bit deeply into the first burger.

"How was your day?" Jenny asked.

Martin was still hungrily wolfing down the first burger.

"Well... Aside from 'long', that is."

"Busy," Martin said as he swallowed the last of the sandwich.

"The good or the bad kind of busy?"

"The good kind, actually." Martin cleared his throat. "For the most part anyway."

Jenny raised an eyebrow, confused. "How's that?"

"Roger, Matt, and Chuck had to bring me in, at first to supervise, then I ended up helping install _seven_ new AC units on the third floor of the Wrigley Building."

"What, they couldn't handle it themselves?"

"Apparently not that many. They're only used to replacing or fixing one, maybe even two or three – in _houses_. We're just not up for these downtown jobs."

"You mentioned something about 'good' busy?"

"Ah yes I did, didn't I?" He could tell when she was trying to make him think positive.

It was working.

"You'll never guess who I got a call from."

"Who?"

"Guess."

"Come on!" Jenny gave Martin a playful punch in the shoulder.

"Mick Heller, vice president of none other than UGI."

Jenny did a double take. "_The_ UGI?!"

Martin nodded, a grin splitting his face. "Yep."

"What about?"

"What do you think, hon? Heller's been asking around for reliable local companies to inspect and help overhaul the central AC system at the Skyneedle. I was one of the last on his list, but when I told him about our record, EPA-certification, and, of course, the trademark Lynch H/C quality service, he was hooked."

"So you got it?"

"I got it."

Jenny smiled. "That's wonderful, hon. Hopefully, this'll be what you need to expand a little, and not just the business."

"I know, Jen, I know."

"What we really need is a chest freezer for down in the basement. There's so much we could do with one of those new ones. That, and I used the last of the ThermaPlastic for your burgers."

Martin sighed, took a bite into the second burger, and swallowed. "I'll do what I can, Jen, but whatever money we get can only go so far, and even with this job at the Skyneedle, chances are it'll be at least a week or two before the money comes in, plus, I've gotta pay the guys."

"Hopefully you'll get paid well."

"You'd think so. UGI of all people can certainly afford it."

"When do you start?" Jenny asked.

"Well, I'll take the guys over to the Skyneedle tomorrow, meet with Heller, and take the system through a preliminary inspection for any major defects."

Jenny laughed. "Just don't expect me to understand a word you say tomorrow night."

"I don't," Martin chuckled as he took another huge bite into the second burger.

A series of soft footfalls sounded as Simon padded into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed.

"You ready for bedtime, sweetie?" Jenny asked, already knowing the answer.

Simon nodded.

Jenny stood, and started to move away from the table before Martin laid his hand on her shoulder.

"I'll put him to bed, Jen. It's one of the few things aside from being married to you that I actually enjoy in life."

Jenny wryly smiled and stood aside to let Martin pass. He nodded and smiled back.

Simon slowly turned as Martin led him out of the kitchen and to bottom of the stairs.

"'Night, Simon," Jenny called out.

When Simon hesitated, Martin gently laid his hand on the boy's shoulder to remind him.

"Good-night, Mommy. I – love – you," Simon stammered sleepily.

"I love you too."

A slight smile crossed Simon's face, but for only the briefest of moments, and then it was gone. Jenny smiled back.

Simon now proceeded slowly and deliberately up the stairs, taking them one at a time, but faster than usual, to Martin's surprise. And, he never hesitated, either.

Martin took Simon's hand in his at the top of the stairs and led the boy into his room, where they sat together at the edge of his bed. He wrapped his arm around Simon's shoulders and began rocking him side to side, humming a special tune.

Starting low, the hum rose and dipped in pitch only slightly, soothing the nervous quiver Simon developed when walking into a darkened room at nighttime.

"_Hm-hm-hm-hmm-hm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm_..."

The boy started to doze off within minutes, leaning his head on Martin's arm, struggling to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time, but it was a losing battle.

After blinking a few more times, each slower than the last, Simon dozed off, his breathing settling into a regular rhythm. Martin stood and gently laid Simon down, head lolling back onto the pillow. He pulled the covers up and over his son's shoulders before lightly kissing his head.

"Good night, son," Martin whispered.

With that, he left the room, easing the door shut.

Martin smiled to himself as he descended the stairs.

_For all the therapy in the world, no matter what, this is the one thing about Simon that I hope will never change_.

* * *

><p>...<em>61238, 51289<em>...

Even as Simon's conscious mind slept, another part of it was still working at a string of numbers the rest of him didn't even know existed. What these numbers meant was anybody's guess.

_What are you?_

* * *

><p>Nicholas Kudrow wasn't normally one to worry or to reconsider a decision once it had been made, but now that thought was nagging at him again, and he couldn't quite place it.<p>

"Are you okay, Nick?"

He started, and then realized it was only his wife Diana.

"Huh? Yeah, yeah..." He trailed off, still in thought.

"You haven't been yourself tonight."

"Oh. I – I hadn't noticed."

"Come on, Nick. You're not normally like this. What's going on?"

Kudrow shuddered before replying. Now he had placed the thought, and he didn't like what he remembered.

"I – I guess something got me to thinking about Michael today, and – and it just kind of snowballed after that."

"Oh, you can't keep doing this to yourself. It's not healthy for _either_ of us to dwell on something that we just can't fix. Michael's gone. I've accepted that –"

She shuddered as a wave of emotion overcame her. "– not willingly, but I've accepted it, as you should, too."

Kudrow placed his arm around his wife's shoulders and hugged her tight. "I thought that I _had_ accepted it. I guess I was wrong."

"You misjudged yourself, honey, we all do. You're only human."

"And that's the problem, Diana – we're _all_ too human."

_Most, anyway._

* * *

><p>Just as he'd left it.<p>

Art Jeffries tramped into his apartment for the first time in over two years, tossing his keys onto the table with a metallic clatter and dropping into the old easy chair. As soon as he did, a cloud of dust swirled into the air, making him sneeze and cough violently.

_Well, not _quite_ as I left it. Maybe a dust cover wasn't such a bad idea after all_.

Standing back up, Jeffries brushed the dust from the seat of his pants and started searching for the old Hoover. It was still in the closet, right where he had left it.

He plugged it in and hit the power switch, but all the vacuum made was a wheezing, sputtering cough and died.

The chair wouldn't be cleaned any time soon.

Jeffries kicked at the machine, growling. He made his way into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator – empty. Not even any cheap beer.

He groaned and slammed the door shut.

_Just my luck, I'll have to replace everything around here_.

Hopefully, the TV still worked.

He slapped at the power button, and, incredibly enough, it flickered to life. He brushed the dust away from the screen, making him sneeze again.

_Aghh_.

The TV was still tuned to NBC, and on another Jay Leno segment at that.

Something hadn't changed.

Then he remembered the couch, and carefully folded its sheet cover back, letting the infernal dust fall to the floor. Jeffries lay back, occasionally glancing up at Leno to see what he had to say about the world at large.

All he remembered was that it had something to do with Formosa.

But by the time the segment had ended, Jeffries had long since fallen off to sleep, snoring.

* * *

><p><em>June 6<em>

_– 5:08 a.m._

Wheels skidded on the tarmac, shrieking loudly in protest as they brought the plane's forward speed to a sudden halt, white smoke trailing into thin clouds in the craft's wake as rubber and dark skid marks were burned into the pavement. The Gulfstream VX came fully to rest on the ground at Chicago's Midway International and began a slow taxi to a private hangar near the airport's southwestern edge.

A loud roar drowned out the low whine of the Gulfstream's engines as a massive Eastern Air Lines 747 thundered by on the opposite runway, successfully clawing its way into the dawn sky, heading in the same direction from which the Gulfstream had come, over the suburb of West Lawn. The dull roar of the larger jet slowly faded into the distance as the two planes drew further apart, the smaller, private Gulfstream nearing its destination – Hangar A-21.

Yet another leftover relic from the World War II era, A-21 had serviced military transports in the waning years of the conflict and was the last of the structures of the period to be built at the airport. That is, until a major renovation in the late 1960s rendered the hangar obsolete in favor of the brand-new terminal building constructed on the previously near-barren southern plot of the airport property. As a result, A-21 had lain in disuse for nearly thirty years and had been considered for demolition up until a few months back, when Striker's employer had purchased and renovated it for private use.

As the Gulfstream continued drawing closer to the hangar, through the window Striker caught a glimpse of welders crawling across partially tarp-covered scaffolds surrounding the old structure, glowing blue-white plasma welders in hand throwing off showers of bright orange sparks. Their sole sources of protection from the intense heat were visored dark-gray face shields and nano fiber-weave gloves, but sometimes even the best of protective gear couldn't prevent the worst from happening.

Striker knew all too well.

Back when he had been thirteen, his dad had received multiple third degree burns on his hands and face while welding at his construction job, scarring the man for life. He'd died just last year, from what the doctors called a combination of depression and old age. So many ways to live, and even more to die.

But Striker quickly crushed the memory, returning it to the deep recesses of his subconscious for a long and rather dusty storage. Sentiment was no excuse to get distracted, and he couldn't afford to dwell on such trivial emotions. Such was the price of all these years of experience – it not only took lives, but it also stole the one thing that defines man: his humanity.

That was a luxury men like him simply couldn't afford in any way, shape, or form.

The Gulfstream at last drew to a stop at the dead center of the hangar floor, the whine of the engines slowly dying into a relative silence, punctuated solely by the crackling of plasma torches and the low moan of the wind from outside.

Striker reluctantly eased himself from the finished leather seat with a sigh and made his way to the exit ramp situated just aft of the cockpit, even as it was still opening. He descended the ramp to the floor, where waiting not ten feet away, was Kudrow's third-in-charge and primary 'cleaner', Peter Burrell. Wearing a rumpled gray polo shirt and black suit pants, Burrell looked less the part of a cold-blooded killer and more that of a late-night tax auditor.

Despite a few-year lead in age on Striker, Burrell straggled behind, largely because of his poor performance in high school and college back in the late '60s. His sole outstanding achievement was a rather distinguished combat record in Indonesia and the Persian Gulf, a record still sealed even to someone of Striker's standing within the NSA. Only Kudrow had the necessary clearance and need-to-know.

That didn't matter. The only thing Striker really cared about was Burrell's competency in an op like this and his ability to get the job done. In both areas, he had scored perfect on Striker's mental grading scale. No one else had ever done so well.

Even so, Striker knew himself to be better prepared to handle sensitive and highly delicate situations such as this.

Mouth set in a grim line, Burrell led Striker through a side door and out of the hangar to a waiting SUV, a custom job – all the better to blend in with civilian traffic – painted white with silver and gray trim.

Perhaps the most unusual feature of this SUV was not the less conspicuous paint job, but the government-issue blue and silver barcode ID plate, used primarily as an alternate way of keeping track of vehicles belonging to the government. What even the best of forgers didn't know was that the 'barcode' was actually interspersed with thousands of info-collection and storage nanites.

The few counterfeiters who really had tried to duplicate them were sorry they'd ever had the idea.

Striker settled down in the slightly less comfortable passenger seat of the SUV as Burrell punched the ignition button and the vehicle almost silently purred to life.

Silence pervaded for the next several minutes as they made their way from the airport grounds and out onto West 63rd.

"You know where we're going?" Striker asked, sounding surprised. He was not.

"A house on West 22nd Place, Lower West Side."

"Kudrow?"

Burrell scoffed.

"Who else would, at twelve in the morning, give me the order to pick up a "...world-class man..." of your caliber, Striker?" Burrell asked as they coasted up to a red light.

Sarcasm. Another one of the few things the man excelled at.

Not twenty minutes later, the SUV silently glided through the dark, still-sleeping neighborhood and stopped at its destination. A streetlight illuminated the interior of the vehicle, just barely, with an orange-yellow glow. It lent Striker a more sinister, menacing look, were that even possible.

Burrell had no sooner turned the car off than Striker opened his door and crept out into the night, vanishing into the darkness of a side alley.

Right where he belonged.

Knowing Striker, he wouldn't reappear for hours, and Burrell had nothing better to do, so he locked the doors, leaned his seat back and dozed off.

* * *

><p><em>– 8:00 a.m.<em>

Jenny was making breakfast.

Martin could always tell that, simply by the smell of coffee and grease that wafted through the house. This smell was working its magic – as always – even as he yawned and staggered down the steps, footfalls heavy on the carpet.

He strode rather slowly and groggily through the living room, eyes wandering almost absentmindedly. Martin then stopped, his gaze resting on a photo taken about six years ago: not long before Peter had disappeared. It reminded him of a time, one of the few, in which his family was truly happy. He smiled, remembering that day and that scene in particular.

They were all standing on a grassy, sun-graced park lawn, him and Jenny standing side by side, holding hands, both their parents standing to either side, and lastly was a then-seven year-old Peter, seated in front of them on a worn park bench, a fidgeting and quite uncomfortable-looking three year-old Simon on his lap. Martin chuckled inwardly.

Getting Simon to sit even _that_ still had been quite a task.

Not so much anymore.

Shaking himself from the reverie, Martin took one last, wistful glance at the picture and continued on into the kitchen, where the smell of grease and coffee now mingled with that of fresh pancakes. He quietly strode over to Jenny – busying herself over a bowl of pancake batter – and tapped her on the shoulder before planting a light kiss on her cheek. She turned to him and smiled, returning the gesture.

Martin looked onto the stove to see a skillet of frying bacon strips and sausage links, grease practically bubbling away to steam and vapor. On the adjacent burner was a griddle, several golden-brown pancakes cooking away to perfection. He suddenly noticed both griddle and skillet were, strangely enough, half-empty. Martin turned, directing his gaze across the kitchen to the tiny dining room, where, instead of a table devoid of occupants and food as expected, sat Simon.

The boy was seated on the cushioned bench, busying himself with several pancakes, slowly and delicately slicing them into small, proportioned pieces.

"So that's where half the food went."

"Martin, I swear that boy has his own face and mind, but he has your appetite." Jenny said, sighing in exasperation, but smiling all the same.

Martin shrugged, grinning as he walked over to the table. "What can I say, Jen? He's still a growing boy."

He sat across from Simon, a teasing look in his eyes. His voice was the same way.

Martin slowed his voice dramatically as he spoke.

"Did Simon take half the breakfast...?"

Simon responded, almost timidly.

"No, Daddy."

The boy then caught the look in his father's eyes. He _knew_ that look...

"Simon did not take _half _the breakfast... Simon took _ALLL_ that was here," Simon said in an exaggerated tone of voice.

Martin grinned. "I bet you did, bud. I bet you did."

Simon then did something rather unexpected. He looked into Martin's eyes and grinned broadly. Martin quickly grinned back, knowing the moment wouldn't last long. Or so he thought, anyhow. The boy kept grinning, and even started giggling all of a sudden as Jenny laid a heaping plate of pancakes, sausage, bacon, and eggs in front of Martin.

His parents were both puzzled.

"What's so funny, Simon?" Martin asked, still grinning.

Simon only kept on grinning and giggling incessantly.

Jenny chipped in. "Simon?"

A look of recognition suddenly dawned on Martin's face and he snapped his fingers.

"_Auldition_? With Woody and the Not-so-Break Breakfast?"

Simon nodded, still giggling hysterically.

Jenny shook her head and rolled her eyes in amusement.

Martin shrugged. "What can I say, Jen? The boy likes Woody Woodpecker almost as much I did – probably even more."

Jenny merely continued shaking her head, an amused grin on her face. She wheeled around and darted back into the kitchen, returning with her own plate, not quite as overflowing as Martin or Simon's, but still respectable enough to fill almost anyone's stomach. She sat down and joined hands with Martin, while Simon clasped his hands together and they all bowed heads.

"Lord we thank you for this wonderful food, especially for the hands that prepared it. Thank you for giving us all a sense of humor, and last, but not least, our little boy. He is a true blessing to us in more ways than we can count. Now may you bless this food to our bodies and enjoy the day you've given us. In your Son's precious name, Amen."

As Martin finished the prayer, a sudden chill swept over him, a feeling of cold dread that, for a split second, gave him a feeling of sheer terror in the pit of his stomach. And just as suddenly, the feeling was gone. Just like that.

Jenny saw the look on her husband's face. "Martin? Are you okay, honey?"

Martin shook from his brief stupor.

"Oh, yeah, yeah. I'm fine Jen – probably just a draft."

"Are you sure? You look like you just saw a ghost."

"In this house? You never know."

He caught the look of sudden fright in Simon's eyes at the very mention of the idea. Martin made the two-finger, hand-to-eye motion, and for once, Simon actually obeyed the motion on-command and looked up into his father's eyes.

That made eye contact _twice_ in one day.

Martin smiled warmly at the boy and firmly shook his head 'No'.

_No ghosts in here, bud. Not today. Not while Daddy has anything to say about it._

* * *

><p>Not far away at all, Striker sat patiently in a chair that was long overdue for a replacement. He glanced at his watch.<p>

The tiny display blinked 08:18.

Now it had been almost thirty minutes since he'd seen the kid get out of bed, stretch, and leave his room, presumably for breakfast. Sitting still in the same spot since just after 5:15, Striker was starting to get sore.

He stood, shaking away the slight numbness in his legs. Ducking low, he crossed the attic and descended the steps that exited into the main hall. Turning right, Striker entered the kitchen/dining area and opening the refrigerator with a gloved hand, he removed a glass beer bottle, practically dripping with condensation.

Returning to the attic, he sat back down in the chair and cracked open the bottle with ease. The warm scent flooded his nostrils for a brief time and he savored the moment before tilting the bottle back and taking a huge gulp of the fizzy, light brown liquid. Again, Striker savored the moment as the beer guzzled down his throat, sitting almost pleasantly in his stomach.

Not bad. Not bad at all. Especially when he compared it to the crap so common back in Indochina and Indonesia. Hell, when he'd first been thrown into the fray in Indochina, he'd even been a few years short of legal here in the States, but over there, well, everyone needed something to dull the losses and forget – at least for a short time, anyway. And something was better than nothing. Or so they said.

Striker then recalled something spoken by his CO in Indonesia in 1975, in the southern Borneo Theater after a three-and-a-half day firefight with Philippine troops.

It was nighttime, and the sounds of the rainforest had mingled with those of distant artillery fire to the north. The sole light in the CO's tent was a lit Sterno, and the only others present had been Striker and a younger man named John. No words were exchanged for quite some time, that is, until the CO himself, Colonel Mark Bannermann, a grizzled, twenty-five year veteran, broke the ominous silence in the tent.

"_We lost a lot of good men out there. Everyone does. I have, and you will too if you keep going like this, though I pray to God that you don't. If there's one thing about war everyone can find in common, it's this: it makes us all a bit less human, takes away from us bit by bit, and, in essence, gnaws at the very soul of man_, _dulling our emotions to the extent that we don't even seem to care anymore_. _I've tried my dead-level best to keep from going that way for twenty years, and I'm still fighting my own self to this very day. Don't let it happen to you two_."

Unfortunately, that advice had fallen on deaf ears when it came to Striker. Another four years of fighting had left the Allied forces victorious, and Striker a decorated veteran, but the latter had cost him exactly what Colonel Bannermann had warned against. He was forever left hollow and practically emotionless, dulled and immune to the sufferings of others. It was a price he'd once hoped that few would have to pay.

It was a vain hope.

There were now too many like him, selling out their hard-earned experience for anyone willing to pay enough, no matter the task.

And Striker was one of them.

He personally hated the term 'mercenary' when referring to most men such as himself – though a few did truly deserve that moniker – it simply felt too derogatory a term to call war veterans who had laid down their very lives and souls for their country and gotten nothing but scorn in return. Respect had meant nothing after Indochina.

Fortunately, that had changed post-Indonesia – and continued to remain so – but for many, like Striker, the damage was far too great and had already been done. One by one, they would sever all ties with their families, friends – if any – and whatever emotions they could still call their own. Essentially, these men were completely abandoning their lives, and forever leaving the world they had once known behind.

But it was a cruel world, and many of them didn't miss it in the least. For the most part, Striker identified as such, but deep down, he occasionally felt something: the way a cool breeze carried the scent of deep woods' smoke or nearby water, the sight of some face that seemed familiar, or the taste of that rare fast food burger to remind you of the way your father made them on the grill.

Despite what many thought, in some small, imperceptible way, he _was_ still human.

A sudden, repetitive buzzing abruptly jolted Striker from his thoughts and he looked again at his watch: 08:38. Twenty minutes had just gone by.

But that wasn't it.

The buzzing continued, cycling through the same tone once every couple of seconds. He reached into his pocket to fish out an older-model touchphone. The caller ID read _Burrell_.

_What does _he_ want?_

Striker grumbled inaudibly under his breath and answered.

"What do _you_ want?" Striker growled.

"Kudrow's been calling me, asking why you haven't been answering, you idiot."

_Takes one to know one_.

"Even Kudrow knows not to interrupt me in the middle of something this important, with this much at stake, Burrell. Take the hint."

And with that, Striker hung up.

* * *

><p>Now it was Burrell's turn to growl under his breath.<p>

What the hell _was_ this? Striker ignoring a directive from Kudrow?

_The man may not be entirely human anymore, but he whatever he does, he does for a reason, and a good one at that_.

But figuring out his reasoning was an entirely different subject altogether, one that would stupefy even the best of the best that science and psychology had to offer. The very idea made the human brain hurt.

Burrell quickly punched in another number on his speed dial. He'd decided not to waste the brainpower of even trying and to leave that part to someone else.

* * *

><p>Kudrow clenched his teeth as he listened to Burrell.<p>

Even being seated didn't help much, and he was already feeling dizzy – it was all becoming too much to process. This was turning into one of the worst twenty-four hours in his life ever since the day Michael was shot.

And _that_ was lending credit to that awful day three years ago.

* * *

><p>It had started out a chilly mid-November morning, like any normal day in the Kudrow household in Alexandria, Virginia.<p>

Kudrow himself had left at 7:00 as usual, hoping to beat the morning rush – at least that was the idea – on the Beltway. Diana had taken five year-old Michael to school, dropped him off, and went to her four-day-a-week job with the local PTA not five blocks away.

He had arrived at Division around 8:30, already preparing for a verbal sparring match with Dean Crandell and his cohorts Leo Pedranski and James Ranson, the latter of which had only been recently recruited out of a civilian communications security firm.

_Even today, they're still getting younger_, Kudrow thought.

He had met a mildly haggard Crandell just inside the main security entrance, the younger man's face set in a grim line – he knew what was going to come, sooner or later. They fell into step and remained silent until reaching the elevator. Once the doors shut, Crandell began to talk.

_"Sir, Leo and Ranson ran the tests again at 03:30 and 05:00, and both times the code broke down within forty to sixty-seven minutes. I can't figure out just how at this point it happened."_

_"But it did, Crandell, and that's the thing."_

_The elevator doors squeaked open and they strode across the small, sparsely-furnished, dull gray lobby to Kudrow's office._

_"We can't get too complacent about this, or more than just a quarter-billion dollars' worth of research will end in failure."_

_"You don't have to remind me, sir."_

_"I sure hope not, for your sake."_

_As they entered the office, Crandell stared around at the décor, or the lack of, to be precise. It was rather Spartan._

_The only thing worth mention or a second glance was an old Medal of Honor and the old 56-star flag – folded – in a square, wood and glass case mounted on the wall to the right of the door. Both had been given to Kudrow's Uncle Charles for heroic actions in Korea, where he had held off a whole company of Philippine troops on his own in defense of the Pyongyang Perimeter, and lived to tell the tale – but just barely._

_Kudrow settled heavily into his leather desk chair and booted up his laptop, while Crandell seated himself in one of the three cushioned armchairs in front of the desk. A quick swipe of his thumbprint logged Kudrow into both the laptop and the NSA Intranet, after which he reached for the desk phone and pressed a single button before he spoke._

_"Get Pedranski and Ranson, and send them to my office ASAP."_

_No sooner had he said those words and hung up than the phone rang. Kudrow answered, expecting his secretary on the other end, requesting clarification on the order._

_It was Diana, and she was sobbing, practically hysterical._

_"Oh, Nick –"_

_"What's the matter, Diana? Is something wrong?"_

_"Nick, it's –" She choked up again._

_"What, Diana?"_

_"Just come, quickly..."_

_"Diana, what is it?"_

_"It's Michael, Nick. We –" Diana descended into another fit of sobbing and couldn't finish what she was saying. The urgency in her voice and the mention of Michael rang alarm bells in Kudrow's head, but he also wasn't about to panic, either._

_"Where are you, hon?"_

_"In Rock Creek Park – just outside the – the main visitors' center," she stammered, practically forcing the words out. "Come, quickly. Please."_

_Kudrow whispered "Yes" into the phone and quickly hung up, slammed the laptop shut, grabbed his khaki trench coat and bolted through the office doors without a second thought, leaving Crandell sitting in awkward silence until Pedranski and Ranson entered a few minutes later._

_"Uh, Dean, where's Kudrow?" Pedranski asked quizzically._

_Crandell shrugged with uncertainty. "Beats me, Leo. He got a call just a few minutes ago, from his wife, I think, and then he hung up and rushed out the door without so much as an explanation."_

_"What would make him just up and leave like that?"_

_"Like I said, Leo –__ beats me."_

_Two hours later, Kudrow's car rolled to a stop in the parking lot at the Rock Creek Park visitors' center. The myriad grouping of vehicles from both local PD and the FBI gave him a feeling of apprehension – and definitely not a good one, either._

_His feeling was quickly justified after he flagged down the nearest FBI agent. The look on the man's face was grave at best._

_As Kudrow walked toward the visitors' center, the agent held out his arm to stop him._

_"Sir, this is an active crime scene. I'm going to need you to stay back."_

_Kudrow flashed his ID to the FBI man, who practically withered at seeing it. Still, the agent held his ground, and backed up only slightly, which was enough to allow Kudrow a brief glimpse at the visitors' center._

_The exterior of the building was a shambles, riddled with what he presumed were bullet holes, and the ground strewn with shattered glass and splintered wood. Yellow crime scene banners effectively blocked off the main entrance, and in a similar style, two Metro PD officers were erecting a wider perimeter to encompass the building in its entirety._

_And that was when Kudrow sighted Diana, seated on a nearby bench, her face reddened and puffy from crying. He brushed past the FBI agent without a word and could feel a growing sense of dread as he slowly approached his wife._

_"Diana?"_

_Diana looked up at her husband and stood, embracing him and sobbing on his shoulder._

_"Oh, Nick..."_

_"Diana, what happened here?"_

_"There – there was a g-gunman. He – he..." She simply couldn't continue._

_Kudrow's mind reeled. "Michael..."_

_"Our baby, our Michael... He's – he's dead!" Diana wailed uncontrollably._

_Kudrow's whole body sagged and his mind spun. He sat heavily on the bench and hugged Diana tight. All that he could do was stammer uncontrollably as tears began to form in his eyes, too._

An hour later, the FBI found a gray, late-80's model Oldsmobile sedan resting front end first in a creek off one of the main trails. Slumped behind the wheel unconscious was the shooter, Lane Elworth, a 42 year-old ex-Army major dishonorably discharged after the Gulf War for reasons unknown. Feeling betrayed by the government, Elworth had quickly developed militia sympathies and had been living off the grid ever since. As with so many others – too many – before him, the motives behind Elworth's attack "...weren't quite clear..." was the FBI's official explanation.

As it had been for years.

And just the same as every other militia act that it followed, the Rock Creek shootings became a hot topic of public conversation, livened up arguments about the militia problem, and even sparked some admittedly weak efforts attempting to revive the long since repealed Firearms Control Act of 1989.

Ultimately, the event had faded from the mainstream public consciousness, and become yet another example of the gut-wrenching acts the militia was all too capable of.

And as for Elworth, he never forgot – the hard way.

After twelve hours under Metro PD's jurisdiction, he was transferred directly into FBI custody, and held without bail. Six months later, in southern Virginia, at Greensville Correctional in Jarratt, he was put to death by lethal injection.

As the man had taken his last breath, Kudrow knew then that even the satisfaction of watching the murderer finally brought to justice could never bring his son back, and that there would forever be a hole in his life that nothing could fill.

It was a hole that still existed to this day. He had merely covered it over.

* * *

><p>"Thank you, Burrell," Kudrow hissed through clenched teeth just before hanging up.<p>

"Pedranski."

"Sir?"

"Get me Striker. Hack past his security if you have to."

This only made Pedranski more confused. "Sir?"

"He's ignoring me. See if he can ignore a two-way tap."

Pedranski was already tapping away at his keyboard. "Yes, sir."

Kudrow looked at the time.

It was 8:40.

* * *

><p>Simon scampered up the stairs, eager for the rest of the day to start. By his calendar, it was Friday. Park Day. Over three hours of nothing but strolling through Grant Park, watching amateur baseball games, smelling the fresh lake air, and maybe even a chance of catching up with his best friend from school, Collin Henries.<p>

Collin was the only other kid at school who had even tried to strike up a friendship with Simon. It had been somewhat rocky at first, considering that at the time Simon's verbal skills were underdeveloped and wholly inadequate for major social interaction. That is, until Collin suggested a game that he called Write and Exchange, where they would write notes and exchange them, largely in favor of verbal communication most of the time.

It was a great idea, and in the two years since – with the exception of his parents – Simon had grown to consider Collin his best friend. They were now FlexiNet buddies, and both had been to each other's house at least once. Their friendship was something that neither of their parents or their teachers could believe until they had seen it in action for themselves. Mommy and Daddy's reaction had been one of equal parts disbelief, wonder, and happiness.

The times Collin had come over, so little verbal communication between them and virtually zero emotion had been perceived, when, in reality, Simon had been practically overwhelmed by the sheer joy of the moment.

_This time, I'll show Mommy and Daddy what I've learned_.

He paused in the middle of the hallway and gazed around, scanning everything he laid eyes on.

His own room and the small, open linen closet, straight in front of him.

The small reading area to the left, complete with rocking chair and lampstand.

Mommy and Daddy's room and the bathroom to the right.

And to the extreme right, essentially behind him – at the moment – was what Mommy and Daddy called 'the Front Room'. But he knew it had been his big brother's room, before he had disappeared one afternoon after school six years ago. That had nearly broken their parents, already suffering from the memory of something far worse – something from the year Simon had been born. He had inquired about that something a couple of times, to which Daddy had told him "_When we think you're ready_."

The first time, a quieted argument between Mommy and Daddy had followed. That alone had nearly discouraged Simon from asking the second time, but curiosity and boredom had gotten the best of him then. Mommy and Daddy had exchanged wordless glances that time and Daddy essentially repeated what he had told him the first time. Only when he was ready.

Since that second time seven months ago, Simon hadn't even thought of it. But now, he was formulating a new idea: look in the room. It shouldn't be too hard. After all, he knew that Mommy and Daddy had gone in there every now and again. In the few minutes before he would fall asleep, some nights, he could hear the door opening. The hinges creaked with a sound indicating they hadn't been oiled in years, and they did so with a tone Simon didn't readily recognize as being from any of the other doors. Or any of the various sundry noises that accompanied a hundred-plus year-old house.

Somewhat apprehensive, yet excited about even the idea of something new he might find in there, Simon cautiously padded forward on the carpet, footfalls barely registering even in his own ears. As he approached the door, Simon reached out his arm and barely brushed its smooth surface with his fingertips – it was cool to the touch, like every other door in the house, but slightly more so. With that he could tell it hadn't been consistently opened in a very long time. And, the wooden surface was clean as a whistle, not a speck of dust on it, the knob practically gleaming in the glow of the overhead light.

Simon laid his palm on the cool metal, wrapped his fingers around it, and turned it clockwise. The knob budged only a fraction of an inch before a faint _thunk_ reached his ears. And that was when he noticed the keyhole.

Locked.

Well, now he wouldn't get a _full_ view of the room, but he could still look under the door and get at least some idea of what was in there. Simon laid flat on the floor, head cocked and eyes scanning the interior.

It was mostly dark, filtered rays of sunlight streaming through the closed blinds. But Simon could still make out multiple distinct objects: a wood-framed bed lay head-on to the far left wall; directly in front of his vision was a small desk, similar to his own. On the front wall, to the right of the bed, a series of wooden shelves were mounted, growing incrementally smaller the closer they got to the ceiling. There were six in total, covered with all sorts of knickknacks. Most were indistinguishable, but one Simon could clearly distinguish from the rest: it was a worn, gold-colored trophy of sorts, a blue ribbon hung from the top.

There were many differences about the room's interior, but one thing was uniform: a thick, nearly undisturbed layer of dust coated almost everything. Whatever had happened to traumatize Mommy and Daddy so much the year he was born absolutely had to have been bad, otherwise they wouldn't have locked this room after his big brother's disappearance.

They were strong parents, and that's what now had Simon worried – they didn't succumb to just anything.

This was definitely something to keep for future reference, maybe to help him better understand when they decided he was ready to be told just what pained them so much, but judging by their reactions to both of his inquiries, that would be quite a long time in coming. Another seven months wouldn't do it, not by a long shot, and even seven years might very well be stretching it, but he had to try. Simon then stored that away, too.

He'd ask again, seven years from today. The sixth of June, 2004 was a long way off, and by then, he'd be sixteen, but hopefully he'd also have at least some of the wisdom that came with age. He would occupy the next seven years with moments of happiness, knowledge, and work just for the sheer experience of it.

And hopefully, it'd be worth it, finding out just what seemed to torment Mommy and Daddy so and help them out in whatever way he could.

Simon grabbed at the doorknob with both hands, hauled himself to his feet, and backed up a few steps before spinning a full 180 on his heels and trotting back into his room. His Friday clothes hung over the edge of one of the dresser drawers: a neatly folded plain blue t-shirt and his old, partly faded jeans. They were, he dared say, his favorites. He seized them in hand and headed for the bathroom to change.

It would be a great day.

* * *

><p>At that moment, it took all the patience Kudrow had to keep from kicking Pedranski in the rear to get him to move faster. Using the code, for all its much touted worth, was taking longer than Kudrow would have liked. He needed to get Striker back under control before he did any damage. The man was a walking time bomb, ready to go off at a moment's notice and take anyone around with him, though Kudrow somewhat doubted that Striker would actually sacrifice himself.<p>

No, the man would definitely find a way to accomplish his destruction and ensure that he survived, at a safe distance too.

"Pedranski?"

"Almost there, sir."

"You said that last time."

"'Last time' was only a few minutes ago."

"You getting sarcastic with me?"

"No, I'm trying to establish a two-way tap into a secure phone, using a quantum encryption to break its security lock, one that we specifically designed to prevent such tampering in the first place. Sir."

"Fine, fine. Just hurry it up."

Division regulations strictly forbade life 'from the outside' to interfere with command decisions.

_To hell with the regulations._

"There's no telling what Striker's doing right now."

* * *

><p>At that particular moment, Striker was doing absolutely nothing. Well, almost nothing. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the rear attic wall and awkwardly trying to snap his fingers to the beat of an old rock song with no success.<p>

He was practically _bored_, of all things, though he either rarely or not at all cared for much of what the modern world called 'entertainment', anyway. Trivial stuff, most of it.

A sudden rumble from outside interrupted Striker's thoughts, and he peered through the slats of the old air vent. An older-model (probably late 80s) white pickup truck, obviously still gas-powered, rolled up the central alley behind the detached garage at 2144 W. 23rd. A faint group of letters was emblazoned across the truck's door. Striker could just make out the wording: _Lynch H & C_.

_Lynch_...

The files, though hastily assembled, were accurate, and _had_ mentioned that the boy's father owned a small heating and cooling business that operated locally.

And the three men that were now getting out of the truck were likely some of Lynch's only employees, at that.

Now they were opening up the garage. Lynch himself came out of the house not a couple of minutes later and began to converse with them. Inaudible words passed among the group for a time, complete with all sorts of confusing hand-and-arm gestures. Then the conversation ended and the group split up. The men from the truck were now entering the garage as Lynch jogged back to the house, apparently in some kind of hurry.

_I wonder what _that's_ all about._

Another sudden noise from behind made Striker whirl around, scanning the attic.

Nothing.

Then it sounded a second time.

It was behind him, again. And then his pocket vibrated slightly.

His phone. _Duh_...

Striker fished it from his pocket and cast a glance at the display. It read **_Active_**.

Kudrow.

"Colonel, I presume," He said with a hint of sarcasm.

Kudrow's voice blared in his ear. "Striker, what the hell is going on?!"

"Colonel?"

"You've been ignoring my calls. _That's_ what!"

"And you of all people should know not to interrupt a man in the middle of something."

* * *

><p>Kudrow could feel the last strings of patience starting to slip away as the conversation progressed.<p>

"I specifically told you..."

"You told me to handle the situation in whatever way I deem necessary. That's what you said. Not quite word-for-word, but... well, there it is."

_Son of a – Of course he was right. _

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

"What needs to be done."

"'_What needs to be done'_?! Do you even realize what you're saying?"

Striker stayed silent.

"Can you even _comprehend_ the consequences of what will happen here?"

Silence persisted.

"Striker!"

"What?!" Striker snapped.

"You know what," Kudrow growled. "I'm ordering you to stand down."

Again the line went silent.

"That is a _direct_ order!"

"I don't take my orders from you anymore, Colonel."

That was when Kudrow had finally had it.

"_WHAT?!_" He roared, livid and disbelieving. Pedranski visibly cringed.

"I never did."

"Do you even have any real loyalties then?"

"No."

"Then just where does that loyalty lie, Striker?"

"You should know better. Loyalty can change, if it even existed at all in the first place."

A loud click sounded in the background. Kudrow recognized that sound, from all those days in his childhood spent hunting with his Uncle Jack in the woods of central Virginia...

"Striker! _STAND DOWN_! I am _NOT_ going to ask you again."

"For now, Colonel, that loyalty lies somewhere else."

Then Striker hung up, but he didn't know that it even was a tap, and that Kudrow could still hear him, plain as day. Especially when he made that final call.

"_Sir, I've dealt with Kudrow_."

A man's voice, extremely faint and almost inaudible, responded, rather coldly.

"_Proceed_."

* * *

><p>Simon walked up to his desk and reopened the <em>Encoders<em> book, wherein lay number ninety-nine. It was presenting him with somewhat of a conundrum.

It had since he'd first opened it up at school yesterday. The fact that it told him to call a phone number was even stranger. But Simon did have to admire the ingenuity of the message and its dually simplistic and cryptic nature.

Maybe he'd tell the person on the other end that the next time. He could give them praise for their work – basically, complement them on a job well done.

But that would have to wait for now. Park Time wasn't far away at all. For now, Simon leaned over his desk and peered into the backyard.

Fortunately, the old solar panels were still in the shadows and hadn't caught the sun yet. They could get really, really hot and bright when it did. Then he saw Daddy's three employees out behind the garage, loading one of the company trucks.

_Matt, Roger, and Chuck, wasn't it? _

And that was when Simon caught a brief flash of sunlight in the upper left corner of his field of vision.

_What would that be, coming from Mr. and Mrs. Roberts' house? Aren't they off up in the Miami Mountains somewhere? And why would it be coming from their attic?_

* * *

><p>And Striker pulled the trigger.<p>

The boy staggered back from the force of the shot as a familiar spider web of cracks spread across the window. Then he crumpled backward and disappeared from Striker's line of sight.

* * *

><p>That sudden and unmistakable crack of gunfire occurred almost simultaneously with the sound of shattering glass. What then followed was a dull, heavy thud, and an undeniable shriek of pain and terror.<p>

The next two reports followed seconds later, freezing Martin and Jenny in their tracks, and they involuntarily ducked below the countertops. A heavy and ominous silence now hung over the house.

Martin and Jenny's brief glances of bewilderment quickly turned to those of sudden recognition and utter horror as a moan and shrill cry of pain reached their ears.

That was _inside_ their home. And it was coming from...

Upstairs.

There was something else. A voice. It sounded weak...

"_Mommy, Daddy_..."

Jenny suddenly leapt up and bolted from the kitchen, her mind spinning with a terrible thought she dearly hoped not true as her husband fell in behind her, both of them now at a dead run.

The time was 9:04.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Simon's death was one of the most difficult things I've ever had to write about. But in the end, things will all work out. _

_Chapter 3 has been a work in-progress for some time, but, with luck, I might be able to finish it by the time spring rolls around._

_Stay tuned._

_**Update:** As of May 2014, this story has been put on hold due in part to writers' block, work on other stories, and apparent lack of interest in this one._


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